


Way in the World

by flowsque



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Football Player Harry, Football Player Louis, Football | Soccer, Harry is in the academy, Introspection, Louis plays in the first team, M/M, OT5 plays football, Pining, famous/non-famous, harry and barbara are buddies, harry is louis' baby, kind of, knee injury, niall is louis' teammate, there's side Niall/Barbara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 74,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowsque/pseuds/flowsque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Louis Tomlinson enters the waiting room, Harry can distinctly feel his heart sinking to his stomach.<br/>The man's hair is ruffled and dishevelled and his red jersey, damp with sweat from training, clings to his perfect and chiseled body. He stands there, almost unreal, against the glass door, peering inside the office.<br/>Harry knew this would’ve happened, sooner or later. That he would have bumped into him. They play for the same club after all, even if they’re in different leagues. It’s not weird.<br/>It is not.<br/>Except it totally is.<br/> <br/>-<br/>Or, the one where Harry has a knee injury and an embarrassing crush on Manchester United's pretty number ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! The story was inspired by the injury of one of my favourite footballers, actually. What a sad inspiration. I know.  
> I promise there are nice things, though. Good stuff happens! Happy days!  
> I obviously do not own anyone or anything and it's all fiction and for fun etc.  
> Also the title comes from Nina Nesbitt's song, which I think sums up Harry in here.  
> Thanks to [flylikeabird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flylikeabird/pseuds/flylikeabird) for beta reading this story!  
> Warning: there are mentions of the injury of the cruciate ligament and the following recovery.  
>  

“Bend your leg,”

Harry uses his hands to carefully put pressure on his knee, which creaks suspiciously in return. There is always this moment while he’s in the middle of his physiotherapy session when his knee stops cooperating, and the ligament starts to fight him like it’s begging for mercy.

It hurts a lot, but he never asks Matthew, the therapist, to take a break. Not even when the pain is as unbearable as it is right now. He has never been one to surrender to things, even when they’re just too much. He throws back his head instead, biting hard his lower lip to try and hide from the physiotherapist the grimace that flashed on his face.

Unfortunately he knows Harry too well, and his struggle never goes unnoticed.

“Does it hurt?” asks Matthew, raising his eyebrows in a frown and loosening the grip on Harry’s leg a little. Harry swallows and squints his eyes, trying his best to stifle the tears welling up behind his eyelids. He knows that he doesn’t need to freak out every fucking time. That each doctor who examined him said the exact same thing. His knee is going to recover. It’ll be fine. It only needs time. _He knows that_.

He knows that he needs to meticulously follow the rehab guidelines and to do what Matthew tells him. That he can’t rush into things, even if he’s so impatient that he honestly can’t wait to be back on the football pitch. But being reckless would only worsen the situation, _and that’s not what we want, right Harry_?

He is seriously trying his best. But it’s common knowledge that pain is not really _rational_ , after all. He can’t exactly control what happens in his head now, can he?

At least he can hide it, though. He can smile at his mum when he goes back home to Holmes Chapel for the holidays, he can smile at the therapists and at the doctor, he can even smile with gritted teeth at his teammates, who come and visit him after practice. They always stop by to comfort him, to ask how’s rehabilitation going, and then they go back to the locker room to take a well deserved shower after an exhausting training session.

He’s a master at that. He’s so good at pretending everything is fine, more than fine, when in reality he cringes every time his mind is crossed by the thought that it’s already been three months since he injured his knee, yet he’s still forced to walk with a fucking crutch and do all the exercises to recover.

Of course it hurts.

It hurts a lot to feel your ligament pulling off the bone, hearing that dry _'pop_ ' and knowing that something’s gone wrong. It hurts to have your knee torn in two, to watch a team of doctors reconstruct it in front of your eyes. It also hurts having to get used again to something  that came natural to him only a few months ago, like walking or running. Or kicking the football.

And that probably hurts more than the injury itself.

Underneath all the smiles and the confidence, Harry feels just empty and tired. It seems like everyone and their mother feels the need to tell him always the same things, to reassure him. They say that he needs to stay positive, that if he’s determined and strong enough he will recover in the blinking of an eye. And then they proceed to give him that _look,_ a mixture of pity and concern, as if he’s the dumbest kid on earth while they know the solution to the ancient Egypt’s greatest mystery.

Honestly, Harry would love to know how it feels to be able to speak like that. Because when he is alone and scared, he doesn’t even dare to _dream_ about his comeback on the pitch, when his teammates will hug him and a few supporters will lazily clap from the stands.

He doesn’t dare to toy with that idea, because the moment feels too far away, too blurred. He thinks that there’s no point in dreaming of it, if the second after he’s still laying on that damn table in that forgotten corner of the gym, doing the isometric exercises.

And time passes slowly, so fucking slowly, marked by his frantic breath, by the sound of the crutches on the rubbery floor, by the unsteady beat of his heart, by the creaking of his knee that once was so used to take the strain of ninety minutes in the match without losing steam and that betrayed him in the most crucial of the moments.

Because reality is, when he was about to touch the stars, he fell. Well, technically they made him fall, but whatever. He’s still too bitter about that.

Harry whimpers stoically when he could scream from the pain and bends his knee with more determination to show that it’s nothing.

“Don’t cheat Harry,” reprimands Matthew with that frown still planted on his face, when he notices Harry’s strained features. “I know that you’re worried and everything, but believe me when I say that the pain is common and is part of the therapy. It’s perfectly normal if it hurts, you know. But I need you to tell me if it does, I need you to speak to me, because I need to record how the cure is going. Some knees recover surprisingly fast, while some...” he stretches his leg and spreads a cool gel on his knee, to prep him for the ultrasound, like every Wednesday.

Matthew cuts himself off mid sentence, but Harry doesn’t need him to finish, he already knows what he was about to say. _Some don’t recover at all_. Blunt as that.

Obviously he knows how serious his injury is. Contrary to popular belief he’s not stupid. He knows how much time it takes to recover properly from an anterior cruciate ligament tear, and he also knows about all the footballers who never do, who have to quit football because they can’t regain the flexibility of the ligament and reestablish proper gait. But even when he carries himself inside and outside the gym, struggling with the crutches, when he grits his teeth so hard they almost crumble, he’s still aware that he can’t be one of those who end up quitting. He needs to take a chance, if one exists, he needs to fight until it’s worth it, until the very end, until they tell him that’s it, there’s nothing more you can do, one way or another. He needs to do that for his team, for his family, and even for that mini him who dreamed to become a famous footballer. Because it’s true that, although at some point every kid has dreamed of becoming a footballer and playing for their favourite team, only a few manage to do just that. But it’s also true that nobody has told him he can’t be one of those, yet. After all there’s still the entire medical staff of the under-21 team of one of the world’s biggest clubs taking care of him. That has to mean something.

Harry doesn’t like to brag, but he knows he’s good. Or at least that he _was_ good, before the injury. That’s why he has to give everything and endure the therapy, the exercises, the ultrasound, the physical pain, and, first and foremost, the sight from the stands of his teammates running on the pitch, playing, scoring and winning.

And more than the fear of not being able to ever recover, what scares him shitless is the thought that if the team works just fine without him, maybe he’s not that essential after all. It hurts to admit that, but he can’t avoid it when he watches his team winning match after match, even when he’s not there. It’s scary, thinking that maybe when he’ll come back, _if_ he’ll come back, he’ll need to fight to be a first-string player again, to find his place in the team. And then he could be not as good as he was before, he could never celebrate a goal again.

He’s always been too paranoid, but it is legit to worry about this kind of stuff. He’s entitled to do just that. Especially when this stuff is associated with the pain coming from the medical treatment, the mixture just too much to handle, so overwhelming that he thinks of giving up, even though the desire to step on the field is the only thing he can think about.

Gemma, his sister, tells him that staying away from the stadium had him becoming a drama queen, but Harry feels more realistic and matured, instead. And not necessarily in a good way. He thinks it happened too fast, too soon, in the wrong way. He had to learn how to handle the insane pressure and the worries that don’t belong to a nineteen year old, an age when the only thing that should matter is running carefree on the field and dreaming of wearing the jersey with the official logo of the English Premier League embroidered where the heart is.

“...while some just need more time,” says Matthew with a shrug, interrupting his stream of thoughts.

He starts to press the probe of the ultrasound on his knee, making him moan in complaint.

“Oh shush Harry, you know how it is,” snorts Matthew with an eye roll. “So, what happened to that bloke who tackled you? Did he come back from the disqualification?” he asks, trying to divert Harry’s focus from the pain he knows he’s causing him but failing miserably.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, tucking some unruly strands under the hair-band. He sighs heavily, like every time somebody has to remind him about the injury. It happened during the match against Chelsea, one of Manchester United’s competitors for the title, and that asshole of a defender, Martinez, tackled him to the ground when he didn’t even have the ball, making him leave the field on a stretcher. Fucking twat.

“Yup,” he sighs, making an obnoxiously popping sound. “They just banned him for three matches,” he nods.

 _While I’m here doing stupid ultrasounds_ , he thinks, cursing for the umpteenth time that metalworker of a player, who didn’t even have the decency to apologise to him. “He’s already back and ready to destroy other people’s careers,” he complains.

He knows injuries are part of the game, but he can’t forgive Martinez when he’s a right douche. If every curse he had sent him had worked, by now he should be tied up and gagged in some unknown precipice, not playing for the title while Harry is lying down on a table doing stupid mini lunges and bridges and feeling useless.

“Unbelievable,” murmurs Matt absent-mindedly, without really listening to him. He’s studying carefully the images on the flat screen of the ultrasound machine with an unreadable expression on his face. He fumbles with the keyboard and starts to print the radiological image.

Suddenly the door of the gym opens, signalling that the practice on the ground is over. His teammates enter the building and start occupying the machines to begin a small tapering session. Mr. Roberts, their coach, follows suit. He puts his hands on his hips and starts clapping his hands.

“Half an hour of aerobics and you’re free to leave,” he yells, proceeding to whistle to start the training. Then he approaches Harry in his lonely corner, putting a protective hand on his shoulder.

Harry has always had a good relationship with coach Roberts. He has been his coach since when he moved to Manchester United and he was in the under-16 team. That was Roberts' first coaching experience after retiring from playing football (he was one of Manchester’s best midfielders), and when he was levelled up to coaching the under-21 he brought Harry with him, even if he was one year younger than the required age.

But Roberts always says that Harry is his battering ram, that he’s essential to his philosophy of the game. Harry is always ready to create, to steal the ball from his opponents with his elegant movements, to burst through the defensive line of their rivals. In this way, step by step, he made his way in the new team, achieving a regular spot in the starting line-up.

Harry gives him a weak smile and arches his back, settling against the seat.

“So, how’s going today Matt?” asks Roberts, careful, to the therapist, who gives him a warning glare without replying. Harry figures there must be something wrong. And fuck, what was that? What does that look even _mean_? Why can’t they just tell him?

Matthew waits for the machine to finish printing, then he takes the images and gestures Roberts to follow him in his office, cutting Harry out. They nod at him and then walk away, talking steadily with muffled sounds, leaving him to watch them argue and point at things on the pictures, without being able to understand what they’re up to. He’s always been rubbish at reading lips. He should have practiced, given all the free time he’s had during these months, so he would be able to pick up on all the things that people seem to believe he’s better off without hearing.

But he’s not a fucking five year old, is he? He’s strong enough to handle the consequences of what happened. Because it happened to _him_ , if somebody hasn’t noticed. There’s no reason to hide things in order to protect him. He’s an adult, or almost so, for fuck’s sake.

“Do you know what they’re talking about, Haz? They’re saying you’re fucked, mate. They’re gonna cut your leg. You can always find a team of one-leg players, though. You’re left footed after all, I reckon you’ll ace even there.”

A boy with raven hair and deep brown eyes approached him furtively, punching him on the shoulder and throwing a sweaty towel at him.

“Shut up for a second Zayn, will you? I’m trying to listen,” hisses Harry in a whiny tone, although the coach and Matthew are already entering Roberts' office. Harry sighs resigned and finally turns to look at Zayn, who is impossibly grinning.

“ _Malik,_ ” says Harry in exasperation when he takes in the view of his teammate and best friend stretching lazily beside him. “You should be _practicing_. None of us want to put up with Roberts' anger all over again,” reproaches Harry, curling his lips. “You know that when he starts yelling he’s so loud they can hear him from the first team training ground.”

He takes some tissues from a box and starts to clean the remnants of the gel on his knee, shaking his head in disapproval. He wasn’t exaggerating, and he doesn’t need to witness to one of Roberts' proverbial outbursts of rage.

Zayn shrugs unconcerned as to show he doesn’t give a fuck and then proceeds to throw Harry’s leg off the table to make room for himself. Zayn is never particularly enthralled by the muscular workout exercises Roberts is so keen on assigning them. Actually, nobody is. So it’s perfectly understandable why Zayn is taking the opportunity to sneak out.

“You’re giving me the lecture just because you don’t have to do thirty minutes of quads workout. I’m so jealous.”

Zayn’s words echo in his head, making him cloud a bit. He thought he could go five minutes without that constant feeling of foul and frustration in his stomach, joking lightly with his friend as if nothing was the way it is. After a moment of silence Harry looks up at Zayn with an arched brow.

“Yeah,” he whispers sadly. “It’s fucking fantastic being me right now,” he adds in a dry voice.

Zayn blushes violently and presses his lips together. “Fuck,” he hisses. “I’m sorry Haz,” he bends his head wistfully, his flustered expression showing sincere regret that makes Harry look at him with fondness.

And remorse. It’s not Zayn’s fault.

“It's okay, don't worry,” laughs Harry. “I know you’re jealous, I laze about all day!”

It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on him, especially because Zayn is always so good to him.

“So, did you come over just to escape from Roberts' massacre?” asks Harry with a high-pitched voice, trying to change the subject. He figures that he should keep his bad mood for himself, because he’s tired of these pitiful looks, even when they come from his best friend.

“Yeah, something like that,” says Zayn with a more relaxed tone, accepting the shift of the conversation, although Harry can tell that he noticed him forcing his face in a smile, to cover the sadness and the disappointment. “How did it go then?” he asks, glancing with uncertainty at Harry’s swollen knee.

“Uh, dunno, really. Still have half an hour of passive workout,” tells Harry with an eloquent grimace. “Can you wait for me and give me a lift? The team’s coach bus leaves when your practice is over and I can’t make it.”

If there’s something that Harry positively loathes about the injury is that he lost all of his independence. He can’t drive his car anymore, he can’t take the team’s coach because his therapy sessions always run late. He can’t take the stairs without somebody trying to help him at all costs, he can’t go outside whenever he wants, go away from the dormitory, go out for a walk, for a run, when he’s angry or when he’s sad, or when he just needs to be left alone. And this makes him so fucking frustrated.

Zayn snorts loudly at that. “You’re ridiculous. Can you just stop asking me every time? We’re headed in the same place. In the same room, even. And you’re my best friend. Of course I’ll wait for you, like every other day. And my offer to carry you up the stairs bridal-style is still valid,” grins Zayn, retrieving his towel and bottle of water from the floor and going back quickly on the treadmill, because Matthew is coming back to Harry and Roberts was already supervising the practice with a threatening scowl on his face.

Harry starts giggling, but then has to cut himself off when he takes in Matthew’s serious look. The therapist turns off the ultrasound machine and clears his throat, crossing his arms on his chest.

“So” he says, and Harry has a giant lump in his throat, which is now drier than the Sahara desert.

“Harry, I talked to coach Roberts as you saw, and we had a chat on the phone with your surgeon,” he goes on, frowning a bit in concentration. Harry throws back his head, ready to be hit by the bad news. Maybe he will tell him that his football season is over. Or worse, that his _career_ is over.

“The ultrasound shows that the ligament is reacting well. Clearly the continuous passive motion pre-surgery was crucial,” he states, with a proud edge in his tone. Harry dares to finally look at him with a blank expression, frightened to misunderstand what he’s trying to convey. Then he notices the small grin on his therapist’s face, and he widens his eyes in disbelief.

“As far as I’m concerned, tomorrow you can go to the hospital for one last check and if the doctor gives you green light you can start with the training,” he continues, blinking expectantly when he sees Harry is looking at him with his mouth wide open. “Yes, Harry, on the ground,” he adds as to clarify, and Harry’s confused expression melts into a warm, real smile. The first genuine smile since they told him, that night in the hospital, that he broke his cruciate ligament.

-

Zayn is sitting on a bench, opposite the smallest practice ground of the Manchester United’s Trafford Training Centre. It’s almost deserted, apart from some staff members and obviously the first team training on the other side of the fence. Even the sun is about to set, but Harry is still in the changing room.

Honestly he is so used to waiting for him he almost doesn’t mind anymore. Since when Harry injured his knee, Zayn had to drive him to training and then back to the hall of residence where they live with all the other lads from the team, and he has to wait for him to shower and get changed. And it’s not a burden at all, it’s just that Harry is so _slow_.

Right now he can’t blame anybody but himself, though,  because he should have learned the lesson from sharing the ensuite with him. Seriously, Harry is one of the fastest players in the league, basically impossible to stop, but as soon as he enters the changing room he turns into a slow coach.

If he wasn’t so used to his need to take his time, Zayn would probably think something bad happened, like, he might have slipped in the shower, with those crutches and everything. He’s almost tempted to go and check on him, but he closes his hand in a fist instead and tries to stop worrying. It was hard at the beginning, when he always felt the need to make sure Harry was okay. They’ve grown up together after all, they’re like brothers, they’ve gone through so many things together, it’s normal.

It’s easier now, though. Of course the feeling is still there, but he has learned to stifle it, to hide his worries, because he knows how much it annoys Harry, how it makes him feel an incapable.

Finally the door slams open. Harry clumsily comes out of the building and starts to walk to the small path that runs along the ground where the first team has practice and leads to the car park. He seems to have not noticed Zayn, busy stumbling over the crutch and adjusting the strap of the bag, that finally ends on the ground. Harry snorts in frustration and stomps one foot on the pebbles, muttering to himself.

When he looks up his eyes are caught by the players still running in the field beyond the fence that separates it from the ground of the under-21. Sometimes they stop by to catch a glimpse of their training, to see if they can spot their favourite players, fascinated by a precise pass, a nice kick, a cool dribble. Harry is looking at those champions like they come from another world, like he’s intruding a private moment that doesn’t belong to him, no matter how much he wants it.

Zayn stands up from the bench, grinning and trying to stifle any noise. He’s ready to help Harry, but first he takes a football from a bag nearby and kicks it, hitting Harry right in the head. It’s not for nothing that he is the king of free kicks.

Harry turns around abruptly, like he’s been brought back to reality. Throwing a hand through his curls, still damp from the shower, he makes a sarcastic grimace at Zayn, who has that winning smile plastered on his stupid face.

“If you want to show off you better do that on the pitch for a change,” laments Harry. His tone is annoyed, but Zayn knows he’s not actually angry at him. Harry is never angry, for what he knows.

He gets closer to him and takes the bag and the crutch from the ground, before Harry can even notice and stop him. He hands him the crutch with a fond smile and then starts walking with a subtle slow pace, so Harry can catch up easily.

Harry looks at his best friend’s relaxed back and smiles to himself. Zayn’s great, really. Harry is so grateful to have him in his life, when he’s away from his family. He’s so glad he met him when he was small and entering a world that can be so, so scary. And he’s been always there for him, especially after the injury. He’s the only one who actually gets him, who understands the way he feels. He’s never tried to take his anguish on himself just because he thought Harry wasn’t strong enough to deal with it, and at the same time he's never tried to throw all his worries at him.

Zayn has him, and Harry doesn’t need words to know that. A look, a gesture, are enough. He’s never changed since they met, and Harry knows how caring and understanding he is. He’s never tried to comfort him when he didn’t want to be comforted, when he was assaulted by doubts and fears and just needed to be sad. He’s never tried to reassure him, just because _he_ knows they will be back to playing side by side very soon. Zayn leaves him alone if he wants to be left alone, but he’s always there, ready to offer his hand if Harry needs it.

“Smart move taking the piss out of your personal chauffeur, I have to say. You’re risking having to hoof it into town.”

Zayn stops abruptly and lowers a pair of black shades on his nose, watching Harry stumbling like a giraffe on the pebbles in the car park. Harry _really_ wanted to remark how it was him who had just received a ball in the head, but then he opts for staying silent, in case Zayn was being serious. You truly never know with Zayn.

“Well, I could always take the underground. Or hitch-hike,” he retorts instead. “Don’t think it would be riskier than getting into your car, _Psycho Driver,_ ” he adds outraged, panting as he tries to keep pace with Zayn.

And he likes to take the bus or the underground. He likes to stare at people, everyone doing their things, travelling for different reasons. He likes to wonder where they’re going, likes to listen to snippets of conversations, falling in love for a second, until he has to get out, missing a chance because he doesn’t want to miss his stop, and the likely love of his life disappears on the horizon.

Actually, he’s full of shit, because the training centre is in the outskirts of Manchester and there’s no public transport to get there. Details, details.

“You’re not making it better Haz. And admit it, you’d miss all the fun!” answers Zayn absentmindedly, fumbling with his pocket, looking for the car keys.

“And you’ll miss...” he beams, when he finally finds the keys. He presses a button on the remote and a massive car with a chrome-plated bumper makes an opening noise. “...this baby!” he announces excitedly, stretching one arm ceremoniously and waiting for Harry to say something.

“ _No_ ,” he mouths, pulling his eyebrows together, while Zayn grins in answer.

“I can’t believe this, Z. _Another car_?”

He’s not that surprised, to be honest. He suspected Zayn was up to something, given all the car magazines scattered around their room. And he _knows_ Zayn, and with him it comes his passion for big and luxury cars. He just wasn’t expecting _this_.

“Ha! What did you think I would do with the money from the under-21 golden boot?”

“Are you kidding me? And you intend to drive this _monster_?” screams Harry horrified, noticing the size of the car. Zayn is already behind the wheel, opening the passenger door with another click.

“You don’t trust me?”  he asks teasingly, turning on the stereo, volume all the way up.

“Honestly?” snorts Harry, trying to stifle an exasperated laugh.

Zayn unceremoniously turns on the engine and taps his index finger on his wrist where there is no watch.

“You can always hitch a ride, like you said. Maybe somebody will finally kidnap you so I’ll get rid of you and your showers that last hours and—“

“Fine, fine. I’ll come with,” Harry rolls his eyes and settles into the passenger seat, muttering something about how, between the two of them,  is Zayn the one who is in the bathroom all the time. He starts to inspect the inside of the car, fumbling with the glove compartment and the buttons on the instrument panel.

“Why don’t you have gloves in the glove compartment?” says Harry, unable to hold back a giggle.

“Why would I?” retorts Zayn with a look that is a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

“Because if it’s called  that there must be a reason, and maybe the reason is that you should have gloves in your car in case of emergency. I mean, why would they call it that? Did you know there’s a song by Death Cab that talks about this?” he rambles.

“No,” says Zayn with a sigh that tastes of exasperation and resignation.

“ _The glove compartment is inaccurately naaamed and everybody knows iiiit so I'm proposiiing a swift orderly changeee,_ ”  he starts to sing softly, drumming on the dashboard. “’ _Cause behind its doors, there’s nothing to keep my fingers warm—_ ” his husky voice fades in the steady noises of the road.

“What does this button do?” investigates Harry, unable to stay silent.

“It turns the windscreen wiper o—don’t do it!” warns Zayn, but it’s too late, because Harry has already turned it on. The glass is suddenly full of water while the blade is swinging back and forth, pushing it from the surface. Drops of water land inside the car, because they had the windows open. Harry can’t stop giggling, while Zayn gives him a death glare, pressing another button to turn the wiper off.

“Don’t touch anything” admonishes Zayn, even though it’s completely useless because Harry has already started pressing all the buttons he can find, turning on respectively the air conditioning, the small flat screen and the GPS.

“Are you telling me there’s a mini-fridge?” laughs Harry delightedly, opening a small flap and taking a blueberry juice.

“Can you stop playing with my car?” scolds Zayn in the most grown-up tone he’s capable of. “You’re literally five.”

Harry grins happily at the sight of the annoyed face Zayn has pulled. “What’s this?” he inquires, flipping a lever. “Massaging seats? Are you for _real_?”he laughs mockingly, while Zayn blushes and takes him by the wrists, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Harry. Give it a rest.”

-

The drive is not _that_ traumatic, after all. He feared for his life only twice. The first time when they were travelling at one hundred miles per hour (when the limit was clearly at seventy, honestly, can’t Zayn _read_?) and the second when Zayn tried to overtake two cars in a row, because apparently that’s what motorways with three lanes were made for. But this is normal if you’re in Zayn’s car, that’s why Harry is keeping his mouth shut, doing nothing but theatrically fastening his seatbelt.

He snuggles against the seat and half-closes his eyes, to catch the dim sunlight of six p.m.

Zayn looks at his young face framed by unruly curls, his forehead wrinkled because of the sun rays, his flushed cheeks, his relaxed lips and smiles at himself, happy to see his friend placid and relaxed for once.

“What?” asks Harry confused, turning to him with a questioning look. The landscape outside is gradually changing as they get closer to the city, there are less trees and more billboards and street lights.

“Nothing,” Zayn shrugs casually, turning back to watch the road. “Did you see that kick by Mata? I mean, when we were watching the first team practice?” he asks, trying to change the subject. “Not sure if he could pull that again during a match, not even if he tried fifty times,” he considers, drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, waiting for the car in front of them to restart.

“Uh, dunno, he’s such a good player. Liam was actually good at saving it, don’t know how he did that. Even De Gea congratulated him!” replies Harry opening his eyes lazily.

The expression on Zayn’s face shifts suddenly, becoming sharper. “Yeah, he had his fifteen minutes of fame apparently,” he mutters bitterly.

Thing is, Zayn hates waiting. He hates waiting for the car in front of his to restart. Waiting for Harry to get out of the bathroom. He hates waiting for a teammate to finally pass him the ball. But more than anything, he hates waiting to be called up to the first team, so he will be able to show his value as a footballer.

“Come on Z, it was a good save. You’re being a twat because you’re jealous,” smiles Harry, aware he’s playing with the fire. But he doesn’t care, because he knows Zayn and knows how far he can go until it’s too much.

“Me? Jealous of _Payne_? Are you serious right now?” roars Zayn in anger. “Jealous of a third-choice goalkeeper? Okay, he’s in the first team, but he will only play if he’s lucky enough that De Gea and Valdes are both injured at the same time,” he changes the gear violently and the tyres make a screeching noise.

Harry diverts his look from the road and stares at Zayn, pursing his lips together in amusement at Zayn’s annoyed grimace. “If you say so. Why are you avoiding him then?” he asks softly, and his yielding voice hits Zayn right in the stomach.

“What, did he come crying to you? Poor boy!”

Harry knows how hard it must be for Zayn, see one of your best friends upgrading to the first team and watching from afar, from the youth team, training to face Hull City while Liam tells them over breakfast how excited he is to fly to Dortmund for the Champions League match.

He knows how hard it is, because it’s the same for him. Except he doesn’t blame Liam just because his dream is becoming true while Harry’s not. But Harry also has the excuse of the injury to keep himself from questioning his skills, while Zayn is one year older than him and has never been called up to train with the first team; so nothing can prevent him from thinking that maybe he’s not good enough, he’s not ready, he wasn’t born to be a footballer. He has every right to pull this self-commiseration attitude, and Harry will go through this with him.

“He didn’t,” hurries out Harry. “But I’m just a little bit limp, not blind. You’ve been spending all the time with me lately, you’re always nervous and Liam is sad,” he states simply.

“Yeah, but I’m not _avoiding_ him,” defends Zayn, emphasizing the word. “He just happened to turn into an asshole since when he joined the first team. He only talks about that, have you noticed? And he walked out on us in the middle of the season just to say he’s playing the Premier League. I don’t get it why you’re taking it out on me Haz, when  he clearly doesn’t care about us.”

Yeah, nervous. Right.

Harry says nothing. He puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder and brushes it with no blame but making him sigh tiredly all the same.

“Fuck Harry. I know what you want from me, but I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” Harry feels him going stiff under his touch. “Can you blame me for not wanting to hear all these great stories about how amazing is training with Rooney and Tomlinson?” he continues calmer, looking at Harry from his peripherals.

“Don’t you think I’m entitled to be bitter? I know I’m not fair to him and I don’t need you to tell me it’s not his fault. I know, okay? It’s me. It’s me and my performances, and my twenty goals, that apparently are not enough,” he spits angrily, and Harry would hug him if he wasn’t driving. It was so uncommon for him to put out all his feelings like this, and Harry is happy he can do something for him, for once. He can make him understand that he is good, amazingly so, that he will become one of the best. He can make disappear from his mind the thought that he’s not good enough to make his first appearance at Old Trafford, even with all the hard work.

“Zayn Malik,” he clears his throat all formal, smiling at his friend. “You’re one of the most skilled footie players I know,” he says, without loosening his grip on Zayn’s shoulder, starting to realise how much pain he manages to hide behind his snarky goal celebrations. “You play for Manchester United under-21, for the England under-21 team, for hell’s sake! When are you supposed to start the practices, tomorrow, right? Do you know who played for England under-21? _Gerrard_. And look at him now. You’re a great player, you know,” he smiles encouragingly. “And a good friend, most of the time,” he adds, and Zayn frowns.

“You know, the most amazing thing is that you’re always there, if you need somebody to listen to your problems. That you have a great rationality. That you never get angry for unmotivated reasons,” keeps going Harry innocently, when he knows he’s hitting close to home.

“Fuck, Harry,” curses Zayn, biting at his lips.

“I’m just saying that you should talk to him. And maybe you’ll find out that it’s not so great as you’re picturing it. Because if I were suddenly called up to the first team I would be scared shitless, I would need my best friends to have my back, to listen to me when I say how hard it is. I would like to see that while everything is changing, my friends are always there. Sucks for them, that is,” he downplays with a laugh, because the patronising reprimands are not his thing at all.

“I care about him,” whispers Zayn, with some commotion in his voice. He shakes his head, realising he has crossed a line. “I really do,” he remarks, sorry that his feelings may be questioned.

“I know Zayn,” says Harry sweetly, and his words comfort a bit the pain burning in Zayn’s chest.

“And I care about you, too. A lot. I know I never tell you,” he adds, slow and embarrassed.

Harry’s smile grows wider, showing his dimples. “You know you’ll be on that pitch soon, Zayn. They’ll call you up and everybody will know how amazing you are. You’ll be there,” repeats Harry, displaying certainty.

“We will both be there,” hums Zayn.

“Sounds like a promise,” laughs Harry with his raspy voice and bright eyes, stretching out his pinky finger, that Zayn laces with his own.

-

“Harry, my boy! I hope I’ll never see you here again!” exclaims Dr. Walters, sticking out a hand that Harry shakes gratefully.

“Thank you so much for what you've done for me. And no offence, but I hope I’ll never see you again too. Or at least not in this office,” says Harry, unable to hide the sheer happiness shaking his body.

It was over.

To be honest, a small part of him still can’t believe it, because he was so used to stop himself from thinking about this very moment that he almost needs to pinch himself. But it’s real, he can start over.

He can think that fate is actually in his hands, and not in some doctor’s ones. And it’s crazy to find out how easy it is to cross out the past weeks and finally being able to think about the future, about what he will feel when he’ll step again on the turf of the football field or when he’ll touch the ball.

“Don’t forget about your poor old surgeon when you’ll win the Champions League, Harry. I expect a signed jersey from the final as a reward!” he gives him his medical file folder with a big genuine smile and then unexpectedly hugs him. Harry hugs him back, unbothered, for once, by someone else’s optimism.

It won’t be all easy from now on, he knows. He can’t ignore the feeling that there will be other bad moments to face. But right now, he couldn’t care less. Because he has the pass to freedom in his hands, in the form of a medical certificate.

“Don’t forget to take it easy. You know you still have one week of post-injury training before you can join the normal practice, and get slowly used to walking without the crutch. I know you’re excited and you’re looking forward to training, but don’t rush it or you’ll waste all the work we’ve done till now,” Dr. Walters stresses out one last time, before saying goodbye for real.

Harry gets out of the hospital, looking down at his legs. He stops on the pavement, slowly lifting up the crutch and putting his foot on the ground. It feels weird. He has pins and needles in his leg, but he wants to try. The first step is uncertain, the second is bolder. He goes on slowly but steadily, and as he walks to the bus stop he feels like he’s running fast as never before.

-

Louis sprints towards the administrative office as soon as practice is over. Every evening he needs to fill up the forms with his results from the athletic tests and he knows that if he waits to do that after he’s showered and changed he’ll find the office packed and would have to wait for ages. And he absolutely can’t have that, not when Chelsea-Liverpool is about to kick off, so he tries to use his speed to get there first.

He just doesn’t fucking understand why this parade is necessary, to be honest. It’s 2015, there are _devices_ made purposely to fill in those stupid forms, and e-mails are also a thing. He suspects this is another one of Mourinho’s old-school obsessions, meaning that if he dares to question it he will very likely end up jogging thirty additional laps of the field after practice, and he's better off as he is.

The waiting room of the office is actually empty, apart from a bloke from the youth team sitting on the couch in the corner. He looks down, head bent, hands laced on his tensed knees. Louis remembers seeing him training sometimes on the ground beside the one where they practice, remembers his curly hair that fell stubbornly on his face and his green, green eyes.

He hurriedly nods at him and then leans over to peek at the glass door that separates the room from the office. Unfortunately Ed, the assistant manager, is busy speaking on the phone and gesturing theatrically with his hand. Louis goes back to the room and with a grimace plops down on the couch, exhausted from training.

“How long has it been?” he asks the boy sitting next to him, who looks up with a jolt and widens his eyes. Which are very green. And pretty.

“Uh—twenty—twenty minutes, I reckon,” he replies with a squeak, and his cheeks turn into the nicest shade of red.

Twenty minutes. Great. Brilliant, even. Judging by Ed’s scowl this is going to take long, so Louis succumbs to the idea that he will miss the match. He should have recorded it, he knew that. This happens because he listens to Niall and to his fucking theory that if you can’t watch a match live you shouldn’t watch it at all.

While he mentally curses Niall he also takes in the view of the boy, who is nervously tapping his foot on the floor, as to fill the silence. He smiles, seeing in the boy himself just a few years ago.

“Are you here for the athletic tests, too?” he asks politely.

The boy finally manages to look back, still a bit embarrassed, and then shakes his head, pointing at a crutch leaning against the wall, just beside him. How could he not notice it? God, Louis is so stupid.

“Oh,” he exhales, and his smile dies on his lips, when he also realises what a crutch could possibly mean. “I’m sorry,” he tries.

“No worries,” mumbles the other guy shrugging. Louis opens his mouth as to say something, but then closes it, feeling the weight of the boy’s green and melancholic eyes on him. He should probably say something comforting. That would be the right thing to do. He should say that he will come back soon, that he knows it’s hard and stuff but he surely will play again, give him a pat on the back, from player to player, because they know this stuff, and maybe even burst into a tribute to Kelly Clarkson and assuring him that _what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger_ indeed.

He stays silent instead. He watches the boy’s features, the outline of his lips, faintly tilted upwards, his eyebrows pulled in a frown, his wrinkled nose. He stays silent, because he doesn’t really know how it must feel. He’s never been good at comforting, to be fair. And as much as he wants to say something, he feels that if he does, it would be irremediably the wrong thing.

Media always portrays him like some cold and unenthusiastic asshole, when he’s really, really not. But. He’s a complete stranger for this boy, and even looking at him he feels like intruding something extremely private and agonising. As if that upset tilt of his lip is not destined to be understood by somebody, let alone by Louis.

He looks down, wary, staring at the wooden floor.

-

When Louis Tomlinson enters the waiting room, Harry can distinctly feel his heart sinking to his stomach. The man's hair is ruffled and dishevelled and his red jersey, damp with sweat from training, clings to his perfect chiseled body. He stands there, almost unreal, against the glass door, peering inside the office.

Harry is not ashamed to admit he’s about to have a panic attack. His mouth’s suddenly gone dry and his cheeks are burning hot. He tries to pull a convincing straight face while his brain is screaming _LouisLouisLouis_ and the only thing he can think of is jumping on his feet and ask for a picture or a signature. Or both.

He knew this would’ve happened, sooner or later. That he would have bumped into him. They play for the same club, after all, even if they’re in different leagues.

It’s not weird.

It is not.

Except it totally is.

See, one thing is watching him play from the stands at Old Trafford, or on the telly, or when Zayn and him peek at the first team practices, but another one is having him in the flesh in front of him.

He isn’t _ready_. And Tomlinson is talking to him, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, unaware that Harry is freaking out so bad inside. Words come out before he can control his mouth, and he squeaks. What the hell. His cheeks are on fire, but hopefully Tomlinson hasn’t noticed, busy as he is looking at Ed.

Harry is achingly praying he doesn’t address him again because he’s not sure he would be able to respond properly. But of course he has to sit next to him and ask about athletic tests.

Harry sighs, because he doesn’t want to make Tomlinson feel bad for asking, so he just shrugs. He’s never wanted anybody’s pity, he hates making people upset, seeing the look on their face when they learn about his situation, making them strive to say the right thing (that probably doesn’t even exist).

He shrugs, so that Louis understands it’s okay if he doesn’t say anything. He’s too embarrassed as it is, without getting that look of fake compassion from him as well.

But Louis must not get it, because he finally looks at him again, with an unsure sheepish smile.

“What happened?” he asks, with a focused frown, ignoring Harry’s puzzled expression.

Well, this is a first. He’s used to people fumbling to change the topic of the conversation, uncomfortable for both parts, not to someone who seems genuinely interested. He casts Tomlinson a considerate glance, but he doesn’t lose his composure.

“We were playing Chelsea,” answers Harry in the end. “A defender tackled me with no reason as I had already passed the ball. Pretty rude. Oh, and I tore my anterior cruciate ligament,” he finishes in a lower tone, trying to play down his words and to ignore _Louis Tomlinson’s knee_ swaying closer and closer to his, almost touching.

Louis makes an horrified face at his words, torturing his upper lip with his fingers. He’s looking at him in genuine pain, like he wants to fix him, but he doesn’t know how. Then he widens his eyes, staring at him like he’s suddenly found the missing piece of a puzzle.

“You’re Harry Styles,” he says blankly, and Harry arches his eyebrows, not sure if that was a question or a statement.

“Coach Roberts told me about you during last week’s award dinner,” clarifies Tomlinson at Harry’s confused stare. “He told me he was upset because his strongest midfielder was injured in the middle of the most important part of the season,” he says with a smile that is half sad and half appreciative.

“I’m Louis,” he says then, sticking out a hand.

Harry knows it would probably be rude to laugh in his face, but he can’t help it. In his defence, it has to be said he tried to stifle it behind his hands, at least.

“ _Really,_ ” he giggles, shaking nervously his hand. He’s shaking Louis Tomlinson’s hand. No big deal. _Oh my God_.

“What?” asks Louis bewildered, but his voice is softer and deeper, so different from the one he uses in the interviews, the one Harry is used to hearing.

“Come on. You can’t seriously believe I don’t have a clue of what you look like. I don’t think there’s a single person in England who doesn’t know what you look like. You’re Manchester’s vice-captain, runner-up for the Golden Ball, even if I wasn’t into footie I would know your face, what with that Mercedes ad which is like _everywhere,_ ” rambles Harry, beaming. “Plus, you happen to be one of my favourite players,” he adds in an embarrassing squeal, and his cheeks go through every single existing shade of red, setting on crimson.

He’s glad he didn’t say something worse, like _I cherish the ground you walk on_ or _I have the biggest crush on you_. That could have been more mortifying.

Louis gives him a shy and humble smile. Harry realises he’s embarrassed too, so he diverts his stare, even if it’s so hard taking his eyes off him when they’re so fucking close.

“By the way, I’m going back to practice on the ground tomorrow,” blurts out Harry, trying to fill in the uncomfortable silence that seems to stretch on forever. “So I figure the crutch is only a sham,” he laughs, before he can say something more stupid.

Louis glances up at him, a pleased tilt of his lips. “I’m glad,” he says candidly, putting a cautious hand on Harry’s knee. The touch is warm and delicate, feathery on the fabric of Harry’s jeans, and it sends an excited buzz to his stomach.

“You’ll be back on the pitch in no time, I’m sure. You’re so fi—“ he cuts himself off, awkwardly widening his eyes. “I mean, you’re already in shape, considering how serious the injury was and stuff,” he ends with a faint cough, flustering a bit.

Harry chuckles, then waves his hand in front of Louis, showing his crossed fingers.

“Thanks. I really hope so,” he says, and for the second time he’s not bothered by this easy optimism. Maybe he’s just too happy for his comeback. Or maybe he’s finally understood that it’s not just optimism, that people believe in what they say and care about him. Or maybe he’s not bothered just because it’s Louis Tomlinson who’s trying to encourage him. It doesn’t happen every day.

“Uhm, Harry,” Louis says abruptly, interrupting Harry’s flow of thoughts. “If you’re not waiting for the results of the tests why are you here?” he asks pensively, bringing Harry back to reality.

“Oh! I’m waiting for Ed,” he replies, stretching his arms. “He promised he’d give me a lift.”

“To the hall of residence? Doesn’t Ed live in Rochdale?” asks Tomlinson perplexed.

Harry loves the inflection of his voice. It’s just so caring and _warm_. And it’s so strange listening live to him, catching every single small expression on his face, knowing that it’s just for him.

“Yeah, usually it’s Zayn, my best mate, who drives me back, but he’s training with the national team, so Ed offered,” nods Harry, trying to focus on the conversation and not on Louis’ lips. He should probably stop looking at him like he’s a cake in the window of a bakery.

Louis is stuck silent for a moment, then he speaks.

“I can drop you off if you want.”

Harry gasps awkwardly, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t faint, really.

“What? Oh my _God_ ”

Louis looks at him taken aback, removing his hand that has been on his knee all this time, and Harry was so busy fangirling inside that he hadn’t even noticed. That’s how fucked up he is.

“I mean, there’s no need, if Ed offer—“ he struggles, feeling his hands sweating. Louis locks his eyes with Harry’s, smiling, waving a hand in the air as to say it’s not a bother. His eyes are so blue. Pictures truly don’t make them justice.

“Listen Harry, it doesn’t change anything to me. Ed would have to drive for two hours while I live just two blocks away from the hall of residence, you know,”

Harry can’t believe _Louis Tomlinson_ is offering him a lift. What is his life?

“Yeah, I know—I mean, I didn’t know, but—“ he scratches his neck timidly. Of course he was dying to say yes. He wonders if the look on his face has already given him away. Probably yes.

“It’s all sorted then. Give me the time to get these damn results and shower quickly and then we’re off.”

Harry hesitates. But he can’t really say no now, can he?

“Maybe I can get the results for you while you go get changed. So we’re done quicker?” he offers, and Louis beams at him.

“I already like you, Harry. I’ll see you in the car park in a few,” he strolls off, waving a hand at him.

-

Harry stumbles in the car park and notices Tomlinson’s car, parked in the spot number ten, his jersey’s number. He gets closer, and then stands there, dumbly, without knowing what to do. He can still feel his cheeks burning from before and his heart beating faster than normal. He bends to look at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, he throws a hand through his hair to try and tame it, but it hopelessly falls back on his forehead, more ruffled than before.

Suddenly, the car makes a noise.

Harry, lost in his thoughts, twirls around scared, hoping intensely he hasn’t activated the anti-theft device or something. The last thing he needs is somebody accusing him of trying to steal Louis Tomlinson’s car.

All he sees instead is the very same footballer, walking to him with a big radiant smile plastered on his lips, probably caused by Harry’s clumsy reaction.

Harry fixes his button-up seemingly unperturbed and hands Louis a folder.

“Your results,” he deadpans, trying to play it cool.

“Oi, cheers Harry. Jump into the car,” he gestures to the passenger seat, while settling behind the wheel. “Fasten your seatbelt, okay?” Harry nods.

Louis starts the car and gets out of the car park. There’s a bunch of supporters waiting by the exit gate, as usual, trying to get a glimpse of their favourite footballers. As soon as they take in Louis’ car they start screaming, surrounding the vehicle in a mob. Louis pulls the car to a stop and rolls down the window with a smile, ending up with a lapful of presents, jerseys and pieces of paper to sign.

“Hii, how’s going?” he asks amicably, but he’s immediately assaulted by screams, touches and questions. “If we’re quick and calm down a bit I can do everyone,” he tries, while a girl shoves her iphone in his face to try and get a picture.

“Lou, Lou, a selfie!” yells the girl, entering with her upper body inside the car and grabbing onto Louis’ neck. After a surprised choke he forces his mouth into a cordial smile, complying to that stunt that probably happens every day.

“Louis can you sign my shirt?”

“Tommo we need to win the Champions League!”

“I LOVE YOU LOUIS!”

“Let’s try not to lose to Arsenal like last year, eh?”

Harry watches Louis replying politely to everybody, even the ones who are being obnoxious or inappropriate. He feels uncomfortable, but can’t avoid noticing how well Louis seems to handle all of them, how nice he is, how different his media image is from his real self.

He’s so focused on Louis he doesn’t even hear a boy tapping at his window until Louis presses a button to roll it down as well.

“Hello,” starts the gawky boy, nervously. “You’re Harry Styles, right? How’s your knee doing?”

Harry looks at him with his mouth wide open, and looks back and forth from the boy to Louis, who gives him a reassuring smile and a nod of the head.

“Uhm. Hi! It’s good. Pretty good, actually. Going back to training tomorrow.”

The teenager beams at him. “Great! I hope you can play soon. Can you sign this paper for me?” he asks, handing him a pen and a card. Harry has never actually developed a proper signature because he’s never needed to sign anything, so he awkwardly writes his name in his ordinary shaky handwriting. Which is shit.

“Right. Here it is,” he says, handing back the paper and the pen to the boy as if they were burning in his hands.

“Good luck!” screams the boy, smiling at him with a content expression. Louis, who had complied to every request and was waiting for him, starts the car with a knowing smile.

“How fun, right? The most hilarious are the ones who _ask_ you to win a match. As if I enter the pitch with the sole purpose of doing shit unless they tell me otherwise,” he snorts sarcastically, glancing at Harry, who is brushing his arm with his hand.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses candidly.

He’s ridiculous. All his childhood he has dreamed of becoming one of those footballers. One that you go and wait for hours to show up outside the training centre, just to ask for a picture. One that you notice in the streets and approach shyly to get your backpack signed. He’s always wondered how would being stopped by somebody and get complimented for a goal or for a good match feel.

And now he’s signed his first autograph, and for some reason it feels all _wrong_.

“And?” asks Louis curiously, Harry suddenly remembering where he is and who he is with.

“It’s weird,” he mutters cryptically, clouding the tiniest bit.

Louis giggles. “Yep, weird gets the idea across, I suppose. It is weird until you get used to it. I reckon sometimes it’s still weird even for me,” his tone gets softer. “Maybe you waste five minutes of your time, but it can mean the world to them. And just because you’re so used to the point it gets annoying and you can’t understand it anymore, it doesn’t mean it’s not important,” he explains, signalling a turn.

“Yeah, I get it,” says Harry, because he does. Because he still feels one of them. “But it’s not a good weird,” he whispers, almost hoping Louis won’t hear him.

The other boy reclines his head against the headrest and takes off his sunglasses, revealing his tired eyes, still as beautiful as ever. The sun is setting on the horizon and the sky is painted in the loveliest shades of pink and orange.

“Oh, come on. What’s wrong with that?” asks a disgruntled Louis, feeling maybe a bit attacked.

But Harry didn’t mean to blame him. Of course it was okay for him to take fan pictures and sign autographs, he is _Louis Tomlinson_. It’s not okay for him, though. Not when he’s been away from the pitch for three long months, when he hasn’t done anything that justifies that boy wanting his signature. It’s not okay for Louis to talk to him in that way, like he’s saying something extremely dumb, like he’s a fool for feeling upset.

“It’s like,” he ejects with a choke “it’s like I don’t deserve it. Why now? When I’m in a car with you and I haven’t done anything good in ages and—“

“Bullshit,” spits angrily Louis, looking at him. “It has nothing to do with me,” he adds, his face all frowned and sharp. “It’s funny that you see it like that. As something you must deserve, and not just as a consequence of being famous. It’s very nice of you, Harry. But if you think that way, you must admit you’ve done something good, after all,”

Harry blinks, taking a moment ponder. It’s true that he has gone through these months with such anger and frustration that he’s almost forgotten what he did before, all the good and happy moments spent on the football pitch.

“Maybe,” he compromises, still unsure.

“Listen, I get that you’re entitled to feel sad and paranoid, after all you’ve been through. But think that you’re coming back. Allow yourself to feel happy for the nice things that happen to you. You’re starting regular training! You signed your first autograph! Nice things! Happy days!” he says excitedly, making him giggle.

“If you believed in this stuff you could think of this as a good sign,”

Harry smiles at his words.”Yeah, I could,” he agrees. “I’m sorry Louis.”

“Don’t be,” dismisses Louis, turning on the radio and probably considering the conversation over. Radio 5 is airing the sport news of the day. Harry snuggles against the seat, lost in his thoughts, without paying attention to the speaker, letting the voices and the noises from the road dance and mingle in his head.

“ _…the fifteenth match day will feature Manchester United playing Arsenal. The Gunners are in a dark period due to their copious injuries that are..._ ”

Harry hears Louis snort. “Copious injuries, regardless. Oh but surely the left wing and the second choice goalie classify as _copious_ , of course,”  he nods indignant, exiting the motorway.

“ _...a decisive match to catch Chelsea, who are currently at the top of the table, as the Blues will play dangerous Newcastle in their home stadium…_ ”

“So much bullshit,” complains Louis, fumbling with the dial to change station. “Didn’t know BBC turned into Radio Chelsea.”

Harry says nothing, bathing in the gloomy light of the evening that casts shadows shaped like branches and leaves on his face. It feels nice. He looks outside the window, thinking it’s probably going to start raining.

Louis stops playing with the radio when he hears Someday by The Strokes, making an appreciative noise. He waits till the end of the song to speak again.

“You’re very pensive,” he states, taking a turn to enter the town. “Why?”

Harry has never met somebody like Louis. Somebody who asks you directly his questions, without second thought, just because he cares to know. He sighs.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he says hastily.

“You won’t. Let’s say it’s your toll. I’m giving you a lift, after all. I like talking while I’m driving. And I like the sound of your voice,” he states simply, making Harry blush.

“Fine,” he caves. “It’s just—don’t think of me as a catastrophist, I promise I’m not like that,” he says, causing a small laugh in Louis. “It’s just that I can only think I can’t get it right. I keep thinking that I’ll go back to training and I won’t be good anymore. That the coach won’t call me up in the starting line-up anymore,” he admits in a whisper and for the first time ever. He never told anyone, not even Zayn.

Louis snorts loudly as he changes the gear and then moves his hand to brush not so subtly Harry’s leg.

“Harry, I don’t know much about you, but from what Roberts told me I think it’s pretty unlikely it will go like you think.”

Harry promised to himself he would be strong, he would never crumble anymore, but he can’t help feeling the tears welling up in his eyes.

“What would you know?” asks Harry bitterly, before he can think better of it. “Have you ever tried not touching a football for three months in a row? It’s easy to speak like that when you’re Louis Tomlinson” he fires back heatedly, putting a hand on his mouth as soon as he realises what he said.

He probably has never been less fair to someone than he is being to Louis. And he doesn’t even have any fault, he’s just trying to make him feel better, he’s taking him home, and Harry is being a right twat in return just because he is unhappy with his life.

“No,” Louis looks up at him. It doesn’t seem he’s hurt by Harry’s words, his eyes unfathomable and cold as he scrutinises Harry’s, which are hanging for an answer, for a counter back, for Louis to tell him to fuck off, that he knows shit about him.

“No, you’re right. I don’t know anything.”

Harry feels a massive pang of remorse in his chest, bending his head in shame. Louis looks thoughtful and almost sad, and Harry as selfish as he is, is only hoping that his words haven’t ruined everything. That Louis won’t stop comforting and lulling him with his reassurances. Because it’s how he feels right now, warm and safe in this car while outside it starts raining, next to Louis Tomlinson, who digs deep within him to ease his sorrows, even if he doesn’t have to.

There is a reason why Louis is his favourite footballer, and it’s not just because of his skills, but because he’s extremely talented and always plays for the team and not for himself. He loves him because he’s sensitive and so, so clever, down-to-earth, unlike those rich show-offs who only care about money and fame and women.

“I am so sorry Louis. Again. I am truly sorry. It wasn’t fair of me to say that, especially when you’re being so nice to me,” blurts Harry hurriedly, unable to stand the tense atmosphere lingering in the car. 

Louis doesn’t reply. Harry watches his face and doesn’t find traces of anger or hurt. It’s blank. A blank canvas, heartbreakingly expressionless.

“I’m aware of the image I have, you know,” he says after a couple of moments, voice thin and strained. “They made me look like I was predestined to do this. Like I didn’t have to work my butt off to be where I am now. Like all the pressure and the expectations didn’t have a devastating effect on me, when I was only seventeen,” his words flow, like he had been waiting ages to put them out.

Louis Tomlinson grew up football-wise in the Manchester united Academy. He has been there since he was a baby and then when he was only seventeen he was called up to the first team, and from there he never went back.

Harry and him have never played in the same league, even though they’ve got the age for that, because Louis is a star player, with unbelievable pieces of skill, essential for his team.

Louis Tomlinson is one of the best forwards in the world, at only 22. Real Madrid offered eighty million pounds to buy him, only a few months ago. But Louis wanted to stay in Manchester, his home, playing for the team which made him big.

But it’s not always been good. He had to go from being a nobody to have his name big in the media industry in the span of a year and deal with mega sponsorships, endorsements and things as such, when he was barely an adult. There was a period when his name was always in the headlines, not only in the sports newspapers, he couldn’t go anywhere without being papped. He quickly became a brand, in the dirty way, and people kept arguing that he was a flash in the pan, that he wasn’t worth all that attention, but all the same they kept intruding in his life, making up things about him. Harry remembers that one time when some pictures of Louis’ sisters (who were all underage) shopping appeared in a shit tabloid, and he had to sue the paper.

It is better now, though, the shitstorm is over. Louis is still a big name, but he makes the headlines mainly because of his footie skills.

“They made me go through hell. I’m in a good place right now, but if you ask me if it was worth it? I don’t know. You’re right when you say I can’t judge because I am me. It doesn’t mean I’ve had it all easy, though, you know. I'm not trying to say I had it worse, because thankfully I've never been injured that way. But about what you said... people look at me and see a rich footballer, nice cars, probably a cold nature, a preconstructed image. I’m not that. I had to wear it like armour to protect myself and my family. I was a ten year old playing in my mum’s garden and the moment after I was wearing a Manchester United jersey. I have never had the chance to feel that constant ambition to get somewhere with my football skills, free from pressure. To desire more than everything walking in Old Trafford, feeling small, in a good way, on that ground. Because when I reached the age when you start to dream this sort of things, I already had to step on the grass and take all the weight of a team on my shoulders,” he says sharply, almost in self-deprecation.

“That’s horrible,” whispers Harry, at a loss of words, his eyes never straying from Louis’.

“It was. I don't know why I'm telling you all this stuff, I usually don't care what people think. I suppose I just want to suggest you to relish every moment, because even the bad ones are important in your growth.”

“Well, thank you for telling me. I get it, you know. I’m just scared at some point I’ll have to say, okay, I’m not going to be a real footballer,” confides Harry, feeling like a child admitting he’s scared of the dark.

“In that case you should think of a plan B,” says Louis, brushing his fingers on Harry’s knee again.

“Should I?” blurts out Harry, alarmed, because he thought Louis would come out with another reassurance.

“What would you like to do? I’ve always wanted to buy one of those ice-cream trucks, with the creepy music and all, but I would sell cinnamon rolls instead. Because there are not enough places that sell cinnamon rolls in this world. And nobody would ever ask me to do one hundred squats at eight in the morning,” laughs Louis, poking at Harry’s ribs to try and cheer him up.

And Harry who thought he was being _serious_.

He rolls his eyes, but relaxes his mouth into a smile. “But squats are nothing compared to abs,” he objects.

Louis squints his eyes and looks critically at him. “Well let me know tomorrow, when you’ve done both,” he grins. “Anyway, we’re there.”

He pulls the car to a stop and turns it off. It’s literally pouring outside, drops of water tapping steadily on the windows.

“So. I think I better go,” Harry retrieves his crutch from the back seats and goes to open the door, but Louis is silent, frowning with his eyebrows expectantly pulled together.

“You’re telling me you want to go through the deluge like this?” he snorts, then opens the glove compartment and pulls out an umbrella, a red beanie with United’s emblem, and a pair of gloves. Harry wants to scream. Of course Louis Tomlinson in his perfection would keep gloves in the glove compartment.

“Put these on, it’s really cold outside,” he hands him the gloves and the hat, pulling the umbrella out of the case. “Stay there, I’ll get you.”

Harry blushes. “It’s fine, really, I can ru—fuck,” he stutters, making Louis giggle while he climbs out of the car and opens Harry’s door.

“I’ll help you,” he takes Harry’s crutch and offers his arm to help him stand up.

“Louis, I promise you I can walk on my own. I’m doing recovery training tomorrow, do you remember?” protests Harry, grabbing onto Louis’ neck all the same.

“Sure. And I would end up joining you if I let you slip in the rain, because Roberts would break both of my legs.”

Harry snorts, but doesn’t argue further. He rings the intercom, and the door opens with  a click.

“I’ll manage from now on,” he keeps the door open with his crutch, turning to Louis. “Thank you. For everything,” he says, in a tone that he hopes conveys how grateful he really is.

Louis’ smile widens.

“No worries. Goodnight Harry.”

“Goodnight L—goodnight”

“Louis.”

“Yeah. _Louis_. I’ll see you.”

“If you want,” lets slip Louis, and then he stays there, still, with the umbrella in one hand, the rain falling thick and heavy. Then he spins around and walks quickly to the car, while Harry watches him disappearing in the dark.

-

“…you’re telling me Louis Tomlinson gave you a lift. Tomlinson. _Louis Tomlinson._ ”

Zayn is so annoying. Honestly, what was Harry thinking when he picked him as his best friend?

When Zayn came back from training with the England National Team, quite late, Harry was already asleep. Except Zayn woke him while trying to get to his bunk bed, on top of Harry’s, because he’s unable to do anything without sharing it with the whole hallway.

Then, since Harry was up anyway, he started to tell him how exhausting the workout was, how that asshole, Martinez, had asked how Harry’s knee was, and how Zayn had tackled him _hard_ during the match, to defend Harry’s honour.

So Harry thanked him and told him that his day had been quite good, too, because Tomlinson had given him a lift, and that’s why Zayn is currently jumping on Harry’s bed, screaming and making it impossible for him to fall asleep again. He has also turned the light on, which is pure cruelty.

Zayn pulls the duvet off Harry’s body, making him whimper in annoyance.

“ARE YOU _CRAZY_?” he laments, grabbing the duvet and pulling it to his head, moving to make Zayn fall off his bed. “Go to sleep and turn the light off, thanks.”

Zayn isn’t that easy to dissuade, though.

“Fuck, Harry. Tomlinson. God,” rambles Zayn, ignoring Harry’s pleads and crouching down on his knees.

“Yes, Tomlinson. I already told you, Z. And now can you please let me sleep? I’ve got school tomorrow. And training, in case you forgot,” mumbles Harry, already drifting off.

“Did you ask him for a picture?” asks Zayn further, jumping excitedly on the bed to shake Harry off, ignoring his protests. “Did you pass out?” he investigates, hands on his hips. “Is this why you’re embarrassed to tell me? Fuck, I wish I were there! _Louiiiiis I’m your biggest fan ahhh marry mee,_ ” laughs Zayn in a quite good impression of Harry’s thrilled voice.

Harry takes a shoe from the floor and throws it, trying to hit Zayn, who keeps mocking him with a high-pitched tone.

“ _Ahh I’m in his caaaar_ —speaking of that, what car does he own? I bet it’s a Ferrari. Next time I’ll come with!”

“Forget it,” mumbles Harry. “And there won’t be a next time. It was already too embarrassing.”

“ _Ha_! So it _was_ embarrassing after all! Did you tell him about the posters in your closet—“

“Goodnight Zayn,” cuts off Harry sharply, throwing him off the bed with no consideration whatsoever.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as English is not my first language, if somebody wants to beta-read this story I'd be very happy!  
> update on sunday xx


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally meant to be shorter but then I thought I'd add some stuff and it turned out like this. What even.  
> I listened to falling for you by the 1975 while writing, so that's a cool song for this chapter!  
> Some nice things happen here, some less nice things happen, too. That's life.  
> I also want to say that the stuff about footballers is all for literary purposes, for the Greater Good, etc. (even though I /might/ agree with Louis. But shh)

The sky has taken to mirror Harry’s mood. After days of rain the sun finally came out. It’s odd, being January and all, to see a sun like that shine bright in the sky. It feels almost warm, even if the grounds are covered by a mantle of snow and—okay, it’s actually freezing.

Maybe it is just Harry who feels kind of warm inside, because he likes to think that the sun has to mean something good, that it _has_ to have a positive influence on this day. Like Louis suggested, he’ll take it as a sign. He’s found out that thinking like this is indeed a lot better than always feeling sorry for himself, so he’ll just go with that.

It’s the day of his first practice on the football ground after the injury and he’s not nervous. Not at all. Okay, maybe a tiny bit. But it would be strange if he wasn’t, right?

When he opens the door of the locker room, he hears people greeting him gleefully. He can’t see anything, though, because Zayn is suddenly wrapped all over him, hugging him tight.

“Welcome back, tosser,” he whispers in his ear, ruffling his hair affectionately.

“Dunno if I’m proper back but we’ll figure out soon, I guess,” says Harry cautious and adamant, even though his lips are curled into a smile.

“Oh my God Harry, stop that! Let yourself be happy for once, will you?” Zayn gives him a punch in the shoulder, which makes him whimper. Then he points at Harry’s seat on the bench, under his jersey number (number four), where there is a medium-size box with a big red ribbon on the lid.

“For me?” asks Harry surprised, getting closer to inspect it. “From you?”

“Eh, no,” admits Zayn awkwardly, scratching his neck. “It was already here when I arrived to be honest. I hav—did you expect something? I mean, I figured we would go out tonight to celebrate, but I didn’t think of—“ he hesitates.

“Shut up, Zayn. It’s fine. But I don’t get it? Who’s this from, then?” Harry takes the box and opens it, widening his eyes at its contents. Inside there is a pair of brand new football boots, gray and turquoise, together with a brief note.

_I wanted to give you mine, but I realised they would never fit you. These should do, though. They’re identical to the ones I used during my very first practice with the first team. Figured you’d appreciate. Good luck, Harry._

_It’ll be okay._

Harry is stuck silent for a moment, just  looking at the curled handwriting and feeling breathless. He takes the boots in his hands, admiring every perfect small detail, his initials embroidered across the side, the neat turquoise seams, the sharp pristine studs.

“Oh my God Harry, are those the new Magistas?” asks Zayn in disbelief, eyeing them without daring to touch, afraid he’ll ruin them. “Do you know how fucking expensive these are? But who...?” he questions tentatively.

“Louis,” says Harry promptly with a husky voice. He pulls the boots to his heart and looks at them adoringly, unable to take his eyes off those precious objects.

“ _Tomlinson_?” exhales Zayn bewildered, staring at Harry, who is taking off his own boots to try on the new ones. “Bloody hell Haz, what on earth did you tell him the other day?”

Harry keeps shaking his head incredulously as he ties the shoelaces, lips pursed in a bright smirk that doesn’t want to fade away. He stands on his feet then, more enthusiastic than ever, fuelled with new excitement and confidence.

“I’m ready,” he declares, eyes almost sparkling.

Ed is waiting for him on the training ground. Harry joins him eagerly, beaming hard. He brushes the Manchester United logo stamped on his chest just under the heart and takes a breath. He can do this.

“Harry, we’ll start with the warming up. I know it’s boring but it’s routine, you know,” grimaces Ed, gesturing to join him for the usual jogs around the pitch.

He doesn’t care. He would run one hundred laps, if that meant he would be one step closer to being back on the football field. It doesn’t feel like an obsession anymore. It rather feels like finally being free from a heavy weight that was crushing him, because now that he knows he’ll be back soon, every lap feels like a cross on a day on the calendar.

It makes more sense, now, what people told him. To not rush into things. He can feel it, his knee, annoying like a bad neighbour. And he doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or not, but he keeps going and eventually he’ll find out.

Suddenly Ed pulls to a halt and Harry follows suit. He takes a football, passing it to Harry, who blocks it with a good reflex and starts to juggle it, faster and faster, trying to measure the power he puts behind the bounces and not lose control.

“I can still do it!” he exclaims happily without stopping, making Ed chuckle.

“Of course you can, Harry. It’s like riding a bike, you don’t unlearn how to do it, it’s in your blood! Did you think you wouldn’t be able to ride a bicycle ever again?”

Harry snorts at that, because obviously these words coming from someone who has never injured himself that way mean shit. Sorry not sorry, Ed.

“I want you to try and juggle with your injured knee. Slowly. Don’t put too much pressure on it and stop if it hurts too much. But I want you to at least try.”

Harry looks up at him unsure and scared while he keeps juggling the football alternating the touches between knee and foot. Then he suddenly kicks it harder, up, and when it comes back down he catches it with his left foot, he kicks it up again, he lets it drop onto his right thigh.

He feels like a stab in the joint, but with every bounce the pain is more bearable, until it stops completely. His heart beats faster, as he lets the ball drop only to kick it again, up in the sky. He lets himself fall to the ground, smiling in disbelief with moist eyes. Zayn, who was looking worriedly at him from where he was training by the touchline, fetches the ball and runs to him, dribbling imaginary opponents, throwing himself at Harry and squeezing him in his arms.

“Can I finally say it now?” he starts tickling him, making him giggle breathlessly. “Welcome back, Styles.”

-

In his defence, Harry didn’t think showing up at Louis’ door on a Saturday night was a good idea. Like, at all.

That’s why he’s standing right in front of the gate of the footballer’s massive mansion, with a dumb expression on his face and a pathetic excuse to explain why he is there (giving back the hat. But not the gloves. The gloves were a Sign).

Actually he’d rather turn on his heels and beat a retreat than ring the intercom. But then again, Zayn had been categorical about this. He said it would be rude not to say a proper thank you for the football boots, and given he hadn’t seen Louis the whole week at the training centre he needed to pay him a visit at his house.

Harry of course doesn’t want to be rude. It’s just— okay, he might or might not have chosen a Saturday night on purpose, in the hope Louis isn’t home.

After some more internal struggle he finally settles for buzzing the intercom, and as he does just that he starts to bite his lips in panic. He _really_ wants to run away. Except he won’t, because he can’t lie to Zayn, and also because he’s totally not a chicken.

He starts to count the seconds in his head. He counts to ten, then decides that clearly nobody’s going to answer, so he might as well walk away.

But then the intercom crushes his hopes by making a metallic sound.

“Who’s there?”  the voice is abrupt and dry and makes Harry only fret more.

“Uh it’s me. Harry—Styles” he swallows past the lump in his throat. He knew it was a bad idea. What if Louis was busy? What if he was doing some important stuff? What if he was on a _date_? Oh God. Imagine that.

He can always run out. Yes, he should do that. But then Louis would think he’s one of those stupid kids who go ringing random doorbells and then bolt out giggling when somebody answers, except he already introduced himself. Brilliant.

The gate opens with a click. Harry hangs back for a moment, hesitant. Then he takes a breath and decides to go in, quietly closing the gate behind him. He walks the pebbled path that leads to the house and spots Louis peek out from behind the door and scan him with a curious stare, like he wants to make sure it’s actually him. Then he smiles, open, motioning to come inside.

“Harry!”

“Hi,” greets Harry shyly. He doesn’t feel that sense of familiarity he felt the other day in the car anymore. It feels odd, it feels intimidating, now that he sees Louis in such a different environment from the football centre, in his own house, dressed in a pair of skinny black jeans and a scoop neck blue t-shirt, a beer in hand.

“Come inside,” he urges, waiting for Harry to rub his feet on the doormat and closing the door behind them.

Harry stands there, all awkward and lanky, with the beanie in his hands. Louis seems to ponder for a moment and then leans in to give him an unexpected one-armed hug. It’s brief, but long enough to make Harry blush.

Louis is very cuddly. He looks soft and sleepy, barefoot, his hair ruffled and unstyled like he’s let it dry naturally, and his stance is pleasantly relaxed. As soon as the hug is over Harry is already missing his warmth and he kind of wants to snuggle up with him again. Of course Louis doesn’t need to know just that.

The house smells of pizza. The hall is spacious and bright, the ceilings are tall and made of glass, so it looks like you are right under the sky and Harry really likes that Louis has chosen a house where you can see the stars from the inside. He thinks it’s romantic and he didn’t expect Louis to be the romantic type.

From there he also has a glimpse of what he supposes is the living room. There is a massive flat screen that takes up the whole wall broadcasting a match and he can hear muffled voices coming from the room.

“So, Harry. What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Louis clears his throat, sparing him an expectant glance. But he’s smiling, still.

“Oh, right. Maybe it’s not the best moment? I was out and about, you know, so I thought I’d bring you back your beanie,” blurts out Harry, making a sound as he goes up with his voice and unconsciously getting closer to the door. Louis ignores him, though. He peeks inside the living room, where he clearly has guests over, casting a glance to the TV, then his eyes are darting back to Harry, noticing the hat he’s handing him and widening his mouth in a perfect ‘O’.

“You didn’t have to! I’ve got dozens of these, you know. They send me a box full of merchandise every season,” he says, taking the beanie anyway and placing it on a dark wooden shelf.

Harry is a bit taken aback. All the same, he figures that if this is Louis' way to try to get rid of him he should probably say his thank yous and get going.

“Right, I know. Actually I just wanted to thank y—“ he starts meekly, unable to finish his wondrous speech of gratitude display as he’s cut off by a yell coming from the other room.

“GOOOAL! Goal! Lou, you’ve got to see this one! Messi scored!”

Harry arches his eyebrows, startled. Louis rolls his eyes in annoyance and grabs his arm, tugging him along, inside the living room.

“Sorry, Niall and his girlfriend came over, we were watching the Clàsico,” mutters Louis in apology, pressing his fingers in the crook of Harry’s elbow and taking a sip of his beer. And what? Niall? It can’t possibly be—

“Messi scored, I fucking told y— _Oh_.”

Niall _Horan_ , Louis’ teammate, Manchester United’s centre-forward, youngest captain in the history of the Irish National team, is sitting in a tensed posture on the couch, stretching out one arm to point at the slo-mo of the goal. As soon as he notices Harry he cuts himself off abruptly, sparing a smug half-smile to Louis and standing out to shake energetically Harry’s hand. “Hello!” he chirps cheerfully.

“Harry Styles,” stutters a star-struck Harry, greeting back.

“Oh, Harry. Sure,” he casts Louis an amused smile, the footballer reciprocating with a murderous grimace.

The girl who was sitting on the couch with Niall approaches them.

“I’m Niall, nice to meet you. And this is Barbara,” the girl (Harry is almost sure she’s a model) waves at him with a friendly smile.

Harry, still a bit shocked from being in the same room with all these people, looks at him disoriented. Do all the famous footballers think they are not that famous? Maybe it’s their thing.

Niall and Barbara are exchanging a knowing weird look that makes Harry’s cheeks flush in discomfort. Is he bothering them? Is he intruding a friend’s night in? Oh God, he totally is. He needs to get out.

“I’m so sorry I barged into your night, I didn’t mean to, I—“ he stammers messily.

“Are you kidding? We were looking forward to meeting you!” chips Barbara happily, casting him a smile that fades as she looks over his shoulder at Louis. Harry confusedly turns around to look at him as well, but his face is unreadable and unfazed. Before Harry can give voice to his confusion, Niall steps in promptly.

“Have you seen the goal Louis?” he asks, bringing back the attention to the match.

“Yeah, but look at Iniesta’s pass. You would have put that one in the back of the net, too,” counters Louis, plopping down onto the couch.

“No way, look at his position! He runs like twenty meters in five seconds. The goalie doesn’t even see where he is. How many players can score from that spot? Am I right, Harry?”

“Mhh,” mumbles Harry, without knowing what to say. He’s still wondering about Barbara’s words to be honest. What does it mean they were looking forward to meeting him? What was that odd smile? Did Louis talk about him to his friends? Did he say he bored him with his existential crisis the whole drive? Or maybe they were just mistaking him for someone else?

“At least ten,” answers Louis on Harry’s part. “And he doesn’t do anything extraordinary, if we’re being honest. He was just in the right place at the right time,” he adds adamantly.

Niall falls back on the couch in surrender, shrugging. “Whatever. You’re so blinded by your massive crush on Cristiano Ronaldo that you can’t be impartial. It’s a fucking great goal, tell him, Harry,” he grins.

Harry opens his eyes wide and dares to glance at Louis, who is becoming red in the face. He feels immense embarrassment right now. Thing is, he just stopped by to say thanks and to tell him how much that gesture meant to him, not to upset his plans. He suddenly feels so stupid for thinking that turning up at Louis’ house without notice could be a good idea. What the hell was he thinking?

“I think I better go,” he decides, but again Louis interrupts him.

“That’s patently _untrue_!” he protests, rolling his eyes. “And by the way it’s common knowledge that Messi doesn’t have Cristiano’s _physique du rôle_. He does whatever he wants with the ball, he’s the most complete footballer of this time. End of the story. What were you saying Harry?”

“Just that—I think I better get going, I don’t want to be a bother,” he waves his hand in Niall and Barbara’s direction and takes a couple of steps towards the door, waiting for Louis to come along.

“Oh,” mutters Louis a bit gobsmacked, without moving from the couch, disappointment written all over his face.

Niall jumps in, picking up on his expression. “What are you even saying? You’re not a bother at all, Harry! Why don’t you stay to watch the end of the match? If you’ve got nothing better to do, that is,” he offers playfully, pointing at a spot on the couch next to Barbara. “Give him a drink, Lou,” he says, spurring Louis on.

Harry gives him a cautious look, unsure of what to do. He wants to stay, of course. But he also wants Louis to want him to stay.

“Yeah. There’s some pizza, too,” smiles Louis softly, standing up eagerly to make Harry a drink. Harry is still torn, but Louis doesn’t seem too displeased in the end.

“Okay. But it’s better if I don’t drink,” he caves, rejecting the glass Louis is handing out and eyeing the boxes of pizza on the coffee table instead. The last thing he wants is to get drunk and make a fool of himself in front of two of his favourite footballers.

He sits on the edge of the couch next to Barbara, who tears her look away from her phone to give him an unimpressed peek. Louis and Niall are back to watching the match, focused frowns on their faces.

“FYI, I’m not the best option available if you want to chat about how great Barcelona’s tactical strategy is. Or how rubbish it is. Still didn’t get that, to be honest,” she warns, going back to browse through her emails, crossing her legs.

Harry giggles amusedly. “Neither did I,” he admits in a whisper, involuntarily hinting at Louis, who is cursing at Marcelo’s wrong pass.

“I see,” nods Barbara conspiratorially, looking back and forth from Louis to him, making a flush climb his neck. What does she see, exactly? Why is everyone acting so _oddly_.

“I guess it must be quite boring for you,” he says conversationally, with a lower tone of voice. From the face she makes he figures he’s preaching to the choir.

“Oh, don’t bother whispering. These two only have ears for the pundits when they’re watching a match. Stupid _footballers_. No offence,” she sighs exasperatedly, making Harry chuckle.

“None taken,” he assures, waving a hand in the air. “I get it, you know. I only like to play.”

She considers him for a moment, her blue eyes almost inspecting him. “I thought going to the stadium to watch Manchester United was enough, you know. But the other teams, too? This is pure torture, Harry, let me tell you. _Oh let’s stop and say hi to Louis, five minutes Babs, I swear_ ,” she singsongs in a disturbingly notable impression of her boyfriend, “but then we stay over until the match ends. Not to talk about when they start to argue over a play or something equally stupid. I don’t know if it’s all pre-planned or what—oh God I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this. You’re, like, the _enemy_ ,” she covers her mouth with a hand, and Harry giggles.

“I won’t spill the beans,” he nods in sympathy. “Pinky promise.”

Barbara smiles and hooks her finger with Harry’s, shaking. “You seem like an okay guy actually. Are you sure you’re a footballer? I mean, you sure look like one, but then you don’t like to watch _matches_? You should be a WAG instead,” she states seriously, eyes bright and teasing.

Harry suddenly bursts into laughter, pressing both hands on his mouth to stifle the noises while trying not to blush and especially _not to look at Louis_.

“Oh my God. I’ll take it as a compliment?” he asks, but it remains unanswered as Louis emits an abrupt noise, jumping on the couch, because Cristiano Ronaldo has scored.

“Fucking _get in_! What did I tell you?” he yells to Niall, who is looking enthusiastically at the slow-motion, genuinely impressed.

“It looks like he had it all planned ahead! Did you see that, Babs?” he exclaims, unable to root against a good footballer, brushing softly Barbara’s knee.

She smiles condescendingly at him, then turns to Harry rolling her eyes and making faces that have him giggling. “Stop it,” he hisses, poking at her hip in revenge.

“Noo! Look at what Busquets did!” utters Niall, leaning towards to better follow the action.

Louis snorts lazily from where he is sprawled onto the couch. “Please. He’s a drama queen. Khedira is ten times better than him.”

“He’s good but he’s doing poorly tonight,” replies Niall, shaking his head.

Harry truly wants to say something clever, to show that he knows what he’s about, but he is too afraid to praise a footballer Louis hates or put down one he likes. He should settle for something diplomatic. Like some cliché phrase about how this is a game of two halves and victory requires payment in advance. Or maybe say something about the referee. The referees are always rubbish, he knows that from experience.

He’s almost decided to comment on how nice the shorts of Real Madrid’s players look, but before he can do just that, Barbara comes to his aid. She’s probably done with this one-subject conversation as much as he is.

“I want ice-cream,” she announces as she stands up. “Harry, come and help me,” she offers her hand hauling him up, winking at him.

“Lou, do you happen to have some ice-cream?” she asks Louis, who’s too enraptured by the match to pay her attention.

“Louis!” she calls again, positioning herself in front of the flat screen and obstructing Louis’ view. He frowns, giving her a stern glare.

“What,”

“I asked you if you’ve got some ice-cream.”

“I might.”

“ _Lou._ ”

“Go and check Babs, for fuck’s sake! And stop being in the way, we are trying to watch football here,” he bickers, and Barbara casts him an homicidal look. Harry can sense she’s probably going to say something not very nice, or even attack him physically, so he grabs her hand and drags her in the hallway.

They get to the kitchen, which is big and spacious, separated from the garden by a big glass window. Barbara opens the freezer and pulls out a tub of Häagen-Dazs.

“Chocolate,” she sighs. “Typical of Louis. I guess I’ll have to go to the gym tomorrow. You should find some bowls inside that larder,” she says, pointing at a door behind Harry.

He finds four ice-cream bowls and sets them neatly on the counter.

“Just us two. They’re playing in two days, no chocolate allowed,” she explains, putting a generous amount of ice-cream in two bowls, while Harry searches for spoons.

“You know, sometimes I think it would be nice to do something different on a Saturday night instead of eating pizza and watching matches at Lou’s. Don’t get me wrong, I love Louis. But, you know, like, coupley stuff? Like a _date_? We’ve been together for two years now, but we both travel so much for work that we barely spend time together, sometimes it doesn't even feel like we're dating. Sometimes I think maybe we could do something different for a change, but I don’t want to upset him with my paranoia. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, sorry,” she sighs.

“No, it’s fine. I get it,” blurts out Harry embarrassed, giving her an awkward pat on the back and making her laugh.

“I don’t think so,” she objects. “But thanks.”

“Well, I can understand, then,” he pouts offended, because hey, he was trying to be sympathetic there. He sits next to her on a stool by the counter and starts to spin on himself.

“Okay. You’re a good listener. You’re cute,” she smiles, offering him a spoon and making him blush. What.

“Yeah, anyway. Maybe you don’t need that. To do different stuff, I mean. You don't have to do the typical stuff just because everybody else does. Maybe you’re already good,” he says, trying to divert the attention from himself and digging the spoon into the ice-cream, already half melted.

“Maybe,” she allows, raising her bowl and clincking it with Harry’s. “Cheers.”

-

“I’ll see you soon Lou,” chirps Barbara hugging Louis tight, while Niall gives Harry a friendly pat on the back.

“I’ll see you at the centre, eh?” he tells him. Harry snorts, because sure. It’s been three years and he’s never met him before, but okay. Barbara squeezes him in a bear hug, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. They instantly clicked and talked a lot, finding out they have a lot in common. She even invited him to the next Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” she tells him, blinking, and then strolls off with Niall.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Louis sprawls his body on the couch, stretching his limbs like a starfish. He toes off his shoes, throwing them over the coffee table.

Harry laughs, but stays there, wondering if he should get going, too. He is not that keen on the idea, though.

It’s been such a nice night it almost feels unreal. After the match ended they played scrabble and ate more ice-cream (just Barbara and him, actually. They might have polished the whole thing off. Oops), laughing at Louis because he kept  coming up with non-existing words, claiming they were legit.

He ended up winning, of course.

Louis is very nice. He’s fun and easygoing, and it’s so clear how much he cares about his friends. Harry has looked at him a lot tonight, lost in the smallest and most endearing traits of his personality.

He looks at him now, too, amused, as he retrieves a red Manchester United throw from a basket beside the couch and wraps it around his body.

“We can share it. If you try to hog it I’ll kick you out, though,” he smiles, inviting Harry to lay on the couch with him. Harry bites his lips, smiling mockingly, then takes his shoes off and snuggles with Louis under the blanket, that he spreads on his body as well.

“My theory is that couches are made to nestle in them. Barbara hates my ratty blanket though, so I always wait until she’s gone to pull it out,” he says, stretching his legs until they’re touching Harry’s. “Please don’t tell her,” he requests with a regal tone.

Harry giggles, assuring that he won’t. “My theory is that you shouldn’t order pizza if you’re not able to finish it, instead,” he says with a face so serious that makes Louis grin.

“True. But I can’t eat too much when I’ve got a match in a few days, the coach would kill me,” he says with a grimace. “You go on, though,” he adds, stretching an arm to push the box of pizza towards Harry and fetch the remote all the same.

He keeps switching stations, until he sets on the sport news channel which is airing the post-match interviews.

Harry props on his elbows and makes a face, mouth full of pizza. “Come on, who cares what they’ve got to say?”

Louis looks at him baffled. “It’s actually very important! It’s interesting to listen to how they planned the game, what they were expecting, what they think went wrong...” he says, arching his eyebrows. “The match isn’t over after ninety minutes.”

Harry swallows and squints his eyes, going back to lay against the cushions. “But it’s always the same old shit, same questions, same answers. I thought you hated interviews, seeing the way you answer.”

He’s seen Louis behaviour today, and it’s so different from how he is on television, when he answers coldly to the questions, dethatched, aloof, rational. When it’s him and his talent on a football pitch, and the only emotion he shows through is impassivity.

“I don’t hate them. They teach us how to answer. To swerve them. And sometimes journalists can be annoying, so you need to protect yourself,” he says defensively, and Harry nods in understanding. “You'll learn that. Anyway, we can switch to ManUnited TV if you want.”

“Or...we can watch something that’s not football?” proposes Harry in a plea, fanning his eyelashes.

“Are you sure you didn’t lie to me about being a footballer? Here’s the remote anyway, you can pick whatever you want,” concedes Louis, putting the remote in his lap.

Harry grins triumphantly as he opens the channels list to pick something to watch. “I can’t believe you subscribed to every single Premier League channel!” he exclaims outraged.

“I observe the enemy,” blows Louis in a yawn, nuzzling against Harry’s body.

“Fair enough,” agrees Harry with a squeak, trying to ignore Louis’ warmth on his chest. Not an easy task. “What about Real Madrid TV?”

Louis blushes and hides his face in the crook of Harry’s elbow. Ah, sure. Cristiano Ronaldo.

Harry looks down at him, smiling bright. He’s not judging, he would totally subscribe to ManUnited TV just for Louis.

“Look, there’s Frozen on Sky Cinema!” he exclaims with more excitement.

“Who?” asks Louis confused, resurfacing from under the blanket.

“You’re telling me you’ve never seen _Frozen_?” asks Harry scandalised, shifting the channel and hiding the remote behind his back before Louis can realise and protest.

“Harold, this is an animated movie,” deadpans Louis, widening his eyes.

“Of course it is! It just started, look,” he answers, mouthing along to the song the snowman is singing, while Louis looks at him with a fond bewildered smile.

-

It took Louis ten minutes to get totally enraptured by the movie and start commenting on it like he would do with a football match. Harry isn’t ashamed to admit he’s been watching him instead of the movie for the past hour, already completely enamoured.

“Tell me whatever you want, but this prince is a twat and nobody can convince me otherwise. All these crap songs, _love is an open doooor_ , and he wants to marry her? What the fuck? You’ve known each other for five minutes!”

Harry laughs, trying to be quiet, hoping Louis won’t notice. “I thought he was an okay guy. He’s funny,” he says, because he doesn’t want to spoil the movie.

Louis pulls his eyebrows together and pokes at Harry’s ribs. “Yeah, with those sideburns? I don’t think so. I’m telling you Harry, you trust people too much. You could be Anna,” he nods, like he’s talking about some vital stuff rather than some cartoon.

“You’d be Elsa then? Think it fits. Like, you act all cool but you’ve got a heart of gold, just like her. Although I don’t think she would wear these Spiderman socks,” says Harry with a dimpled grin.

Louis chuckles and pauses the movie, pulling the blanket away and revealing their tangled limbs. “You know what I really want now?”

“What you really really want?” sings Harry shamelessly, because he figures that if they’ve snuggled together on the couch they are at a stage of their friendship where he can quote Spice Girls lyrics without being judged. “Popcorn?” he suggests, lighting up. Yes, his stomach is an abyss.

“I was going to say a cuppa, but we can have both,”

They stand up as one and walk through a different hallway from the one he went through with Barbara, ending up in the kitchen anyway. Louis’ house is massive and gorgeous. One of those houses that don’t look like much from the outside, but once you’re inside they leave you breathless. The floors are made of dark wood, in contrast with the white minimal surfaces. The room is lightened by two modern chandeliers hanging from the tall ceiling. From the glass door Harry can peek outside the garden, where there’s a large portico, a swimming pool surrounded by a fence and a small football area with a goal and corner flags.

Louis is rummaging through a drawer. He finds a bag of popcorn seeds and throws it to Harry across the counter. He proceeds to put water in the kettle and sets two teabags inside two blue mugs, making a satisfied noise.

Harry has watched him the whole time, thinking of how strange it is how fast they clicked, how odd it is that Louis barely knows him yet he’s making him tea at midnight on a Saturday.

“Louis,” he says abruptly, with a serious tone, emptying the bag of seeds into a small pan and placing it on the stove.

“Mhh,” says Louis absentmindedly.

“Thank you,” the words come out clear. “For the boots, I mean. And not only for that. I can’t accept them. I mean, I already used them so technically you can’t give them back, so—what I meant is that you’ve done so much for me. You drove me home, you gave me the boots, you shared your blanket with me and watched Frozen and I—“ he rocks on the balls of his feet, the noise of the seeds popping inside the pan interrupting his awkward ramble.

Louis bites his lips as he looks down sheepishly, checking on the kettle, his face suddenly sharper. “It’s okay Harry.”

It’s not really okay, though.  Maybe Louis does that because he feels sorry for him and he’s just a really nice person. He doesn’t understand why a multi-millionaire footballer who can have all the things and the people in this world would like to spend his time with someone like him, though. He genuinely can’t fathom the thought.

“What do you need for your popcorn? Salt? Sugar?” asks Louis abruptly, pouring water in the mugs, clearly trying to shake the moment of embarrassment off both parts.

“Salt. Definitely salt,” he answers weakly and with a natural movement turns to the larder to take the box of salt, stopping to take a better glance at the pictures that Louis has put on the door. There are a lot of photos from travels, matches, there are a lot of people, some friends, a lot of Niall during the years and also Barbara in the more recent ones. There’s a picture of Louis holding two girls, that Harry recognises as his sisters, a picture of his parents with his jersey on. Harry takes a photograph of a younger Louis, beardless, exiting the tunnel that leads to the pitch in Old Trafford.

Harry remembers that day, it was when Louis’ debuted in the first team.

“How does it feel?” he asks out of the blue, waving the picture in front of Louis’ face, who’s looking at him with a blank stare.

“What?”

“Being inside Old Trafford,” he sighs, stretching his arms out like he wants to convey how big of a thing that is.

“You’ve never been there?” asks Louis, surprised.

“Yeah, but only on the stands. How does it feel to play on that pitch? When you’re a first team player?” his eyes are bright, but his mouth is twitched in an upset smile, that shows his frustration and his desire of becoming a real footballer.

Louis pushes a mug toward him, looking torn and pensive.

“We’re playing the Champions League on Wednesday,” he blurts out, fidgeting on his feet.

“I know,” says Harry, without understanding how that can be an answer to his question.

“I’m banned, though. Why don’t you come and watch the match with me from the players seats? It’s not the pitch, but it’s the closest seat available, just along the touchline. And maybe we can go inside the locker room after the match or have a kick around on the pitch.”

Harry watches Louis with incredulous eyes, at a loss of words. Nobody has ever done something so nice to him. It probably comes with Louis’ status, because he’s got the money and the power to do nice things for people, of course. But as he feels him looking back, he can sense how his attention and his carefulness are nothing but genuine.

“I’d really like that,” he says softly, feeling warm and flushed because of the smile blooming on Louis’ lips.

-

Harry’s in between sleep and wakefulness and keeps turning around in his bed, trying to find a better position. His neck hurts a lot. He snuggles with the blanket, feeling the fabric of his jeans brushing the leather of his mattress. Did he fall asleep with his clothes on?

Then he remembers his mattress isn’t made of leather. When he manages to open his eyes, the light of the room leaves him fuzzy-headed and Louis laughs at his confused expression.

 _Louis_. Oh God. He fell asleep on _Louis_.

“Fuck. What time is it?” he asks, fidgeting under the covers.

“Two in the morning,” answers Louis in a yawn, smiling distractedly.

Harry throws a hand in his hair. Fuck. If someone from the residence finds out he still didn’t come back for the night he’s proper fucked. They will make him pay a fine. And then...can they ban him from the team even if technically he’s not in the team yet?

“You were sleeping like a baby, so I brought you some pillows and a duvet. I would have carried you in the guest room, but I didn’t want to wake you, so—“

Oh God, why is he so nice? And why is Harry so dumb?

“Thanks, Louis. I’m in trouble though—YOU’RE WATCHING THE HIGHLIGHTS OF THE MATCH I CAN’T BELIEVE IT,” he blurts out when he notices the images on the television. Louis blushes. Harry with a sly smile props on his knees, setting his body on top of Louis’ and starting to tickle him.

Louis’ _very_ ticklish, if his laughter is anything to go by. That’s another thing to add to the pleasant discoveries about him.

“You were hoping I’d fall asleep, give me the truth!” he chuckles. Louis twists his body, twitching and dodging to avoid Harry’s hands. He catches his wrist then, holding tight and locking his eyes with Harry’s. He stares at him with his blue puddles, making him hold his breath for so long that he feels like suffocating. He feels like he’s burning in the spots where his skin brushes Louis’ and his heart starts hammering in his chest.

Then Louis gasps, releasing his grip like he actually got burnt. He wiggles out of Harry’s arms, steadying himself and massaging his arms in discomfort.

“Right,” he says, panting. “I’ll see you on Wednesday then,” he utters under his breath, looking at everything but Harry, who is watching him instead, startled and taken aback.

He doesn’t understand this shift in Louis’ behaviour. Has he done something wrong? He looks contrived, almost angry and he doesn’t dare looking up. Harry figures it’s better if he gets going.

“Yeah, I better go. I’ll see you, then,” he agrees after a moment of hesitance, putting his shoes back on in a hurry. He feels Louis’ stare on his back, now that he turned around, as he fetches his stuff and walks to the door. He stops to steal one last glimpse of Louis’ profile, who is now back glaring at his lap, then he walks out.

“Do you need a lift?” asks Louis in a soft sad tone, but the door is already closed.

-

“Someone went to bed in the wee hours,” grins Zayn as he spots Harry sleepily entering the breakfast room. He takes a chair and joins Zayn and Liam at their table, occupied by mugs of coffee, croissants, fruit and mountains of food that none of them will touch.

“Shut up,” reprimands Harry with a yawn, taking a biscuit and a cup of coffee. He needs a quite strong shot of espresso to survive four hours of school and practice in the afternoon without risking to fall asleep on the desk or on the ground. It’s easy for them, they graduated last year and only need to worry about football, while Harry still has half a year of torture.

“I see someone made peace by the way,” he says happily, giving Zayn a smile as his best friend pours orange juice into Liam’s glass. Apparently for once Zayn listened to him and didn’t make his mind up for himself.

“Ah, let’s not talk about that Harry, it’s fine,” Liam smiles dismissively, waving a hand in the air jovially.

“You know, Haz, Liam is bringing me as his guest at the first team dinner party for the end of the season, right Li?” announces Zayn, hitting Liam in the ribs with his elbow.

“Right. If I’m alive, though, because Sophia will probably kill me when she finds out I won’t bring her,” ponders Liam, hiding his face behind his hands.

“What? But it’s ages away!” objects Harry. “By then you’ll have to bring me, because you will be in the first team as well,” he tells Zayn, sipping at his coffee.

“I’m just trying to get a jump on that. And, no, you’ll come with Louis at most,” teases Zayn, and Harry spares him a significant glare. He’s too sleepy and tired to talk about that.

“You were at his house last night, weren’t you?” asks Liam, and Harry mumbles something unintelligible.

“I covered up that with the residence manager, by the way,” adds Zayn, and that’s why Zayn is his best friend. Always so responsive and forward-looking.

“Thanks,” mutters Harry grateful, setting his mug down with a sigh. He feels his two friends watching him expectantly, waiting for a detailed report.

“It’s surreal,” he says. “We’ve known each other for ess than a week, but he’s doing so much for me? He’s just so nice and big-hearted, then last night I went there to say thanks and Niall was there and—“

“ _Horan_?” cuts in Zayn, widening his eyes and earning a punch on the shoulder by Liam.

“Ouch! Sorry, go on.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “And when he left I stayed to watch a movie, and he was so nice and so beautiful, but then I fell asleep. And when I woke up we—“ Harry stops. He’s not sure he wants to tell his friends about what happened. Because he doesn’t really understand what happened. They were fooling around. Or maybe it was all in Harry's head. And then there was that abrupt shift in Louis, and he doesn’t get what he did wrong to have him all cold and detached all of a sudden. Like all the moments they shared didn’t happen at all. It makes him cringe, to be honest.

"You?"

"We kind of had a moment. I don't even know. He just makes me feel so stupid you know? I like him. Like, for real."

"But maybe he likes you too, no?" says Zayn.

"Yeah, sure. It's _Louis Tomlinson_ we're talking about. And I'm me. A boy, remember? It's just...it's fucked up, because he was looking at me like that and then-- "

“And then what?” asks Liam curiously.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Louis was just tired, maybe he only wanted to go to bed. Maybe he was annoyed at him because he fell asleep on him. But those touches, and those glances, Harry is almost sure Louis must have felt the same, given the way he was looking at him. He doesn’t get it.

“And then I’ve got to go or I’ll miss the bus again,” he says hurriedly, standing up and leaving Zayn and Liam to exchange questioning looks.

-

“Louis?”

He’s acting friendly and normal, like always. Like nothing happened.

“Fuck off—it’s fucking ridiculous!” growls Louis, fumbling with the hem of the red scarf wrapped around his neck.

He came to pick Harry up this morning, giving him a pass to the VIP stands in Old Trafford with his name and his picture on it. It’s almost hypnagogic  sitting in those seats just by the pitch, a step away from the players, in between Manchester and Atlético Madrid’s benches. From there he can see the smallest expressions on the worried faces of the players, he can see Mourinho’s distress, his purple face, he can see him moving agitatedly, unable to stay in the technical area.

Of course Manchester United should have already achieved the pass to the eight-finals instead of having to struggle till the last match of the group stage, but hey, they’ve still got time. They can’t stop believing.

Harry can sense the tension shining out of Louis, who is fidgeting in the seat next to him ever so frustrated, because he can’t be on the pitch, because he can’t play and fight with his team, because the only thing he can do is sing his heart out, hope and pray.

Harry gets it, even if Louis is closed into a nervous silence, occasionally interrupted by some casual obscenities-yelling. He can see how he would think it will be his fault if they get knocked out, because he isn’t there when his team needs him the most. And if they win, instead, he won’t feel part of the success, and he will think he needs to work his butt off just to be forgiven.

“Fucking asshole! Yellow card is a thing, didn’t they tell you? He almost killed Joan and all you can say is to keep playing? What do they pay you for? Why do you have a whistle if you don’t use it?” yells Louis unceremoniously, aiming at the referee.

Harry looks around worriedly, hoping the man didn’t hear him. The last thing they need is for Louis to be banned while he’s not even playing.

“Lou, calm down,” tries to tranquilise him Harry, holding onto his arm, stretched out in anger.

“Fuck right off! Did you see that Harry? Did you see that? That’s a last man foul!” he ignores Harry’s attempt at simmering him down, standing up and cupping his hands around his mouth instead. “It works like this, when a player with the red shirt is tackled in the box you give the penalty to the team with the red shirt! It’s not that har—oh God,” he shrieks, addressing with rude gestures the referee and the defender who has tackled Brković.

“Lou, they actually gave us the penalty,” points out Harry tauntingly, his voice stifled by the deafening noise made by the United supporters.

“About fucking time,” Louis curses happily, taking a hold of Harry’s hand and squeezing it tight.

Harry is totally not screaming inside.

“Oh, Nevan is getting it. I always take the penalty kicks,” says Louis, his smile fading as Brković gets closer to the penalty mark. Louis values a lot the possibility to break the Champions League goal record, that now belongs to Messi, and this must look like a wasted opportunity to him.

Harry wanted to point out that he would be playing if he hadn’t insulted the referee after he showed him the yellow card during last match, but the boy’s face is contorted in a pained expression and he figures that maybe it’s safer for him if he shuts up.

“I don’t want to watch,” Louis lets him know, hiding his face in the crook of Harry’s neck as Brković gets ready to kick. Harry’s pulse takes note. He feels Louis’ warm breath on his skin and dares to wrap an arm around his middle, brushing softly the fabric of the footballer’s coat and nuzzling in his hair.

The stadium erupts into an insane roar, letting them know Brković scored. Louis turns around in time to catch his teammate’s celebration under the stands and then hugs Harry in excitement, beaming at him without saying anything. With this score they’re in.

The match is still long, though.

-

“Louis, I need to ask you something.”

After the goal the two teams seem to be falling asleep and the game is unproductive and pernicious. Harry uses the moment to break the silence and try to ask Louis what has been in his mind the whole time. The footballer looks at him surprised, gesturing to go on.

“Uhm, yeah, so—I might be—No, I’m definitely playing on Sunday. My first match since the injury and stuff, you know. And you’re playing on Saturday, so I thought, if you want—I can even get you seats as good as those. You can probably sit wherever you want, really, given the stadium is always almost empty, but—“ he stutters awkwardly.

“I’ll be there,” cuts in Louis, smiling. “I already spoke to Roberts,” he discloses, as if it isn’t much of a big deal, and then goes back to focus on the match, dismissive.

Harry doesn’t even have the time to be surprised, because Rooney makes a header and in the buzzing excitement of the stadium, celebrating the qualification, he finds himself burying an incredulous smile in Louis’ chest.

-

Harry stops fidgeting only when Roberts tells him to start the warm-up. Jogging by the touchline, the most familiar part of the football pitch, as he is used to running alongside it, is kind of soothing and calming him. And so are Louis’ eyes, staring at him with a confident light.

Not only did he come, but he is also sitting on the bench, next to coach Roberts, and he gives him a thumbs up every time Harry looks up from his exercises. He can feel he’s as nervous as Harry but he’ trying his best to hide it, and that makes Harry smile with fondness.

There are a few supporters on the stands, a few more than the other times. Or maybe it’s just Harry, who is so tense that to him the tiny stadium where the under-21 team plays feels bigger than Old Trafford.

When the assistant referee lifts the substitution board, showing his jersey number, he hears some people clap. The loudest claps come from the bench, though, where his teammates plus Louis are all giving him a standing ovation for his entrance to the pitch. Harry snorts and makes a gesture with his hand to tell them to stop, because they look ridiculous with those touched expressions on their faces. He needs to think about the game, seriously, there’s no more room for hearts and flowers.

Touching the ball, feeling he has a responsibility, a purpose, makes him feel alive. And that’s all he can ask for, really. He doesn’t need to think about dreams and aspirations when the only thing that matters is playing, running on the grass, finally associating the word football to something nice again.

He feels Robert’s eyes monitoring his every single step. He feels Louis’ worried but warm blue eyes watching him pass the ball. He feels Zayn’s threatening eyes, checking on him every now and then, scowling at whoever as much as tries to tackle him. But Harry doesn’t fear tackles. The fact that he didn’t make it unharmed last time doesn’t scare him like everybody seems to think. It’s odd, but it’s like he can wriggle out more easily than before, he can run away with the ball before anybody can even think of stopping him. Roberts allowed him only thirty minutes in the game—not even the whole second half—but it was alright. It was enough to understand how, in reality, he has never stepped out from the football pitch.

-

Louis is taking him out.

He doesn’t really know how this happened, if he has to be honest. He just remembers that as soon as the match ended he was enraptured in a group hug, and while everyone was giving him mighty pats on the back, he was kidnapped by Louis, who enveloped him in his arms and told him they needed to celebrate.  And that’s why he’s frantically walking on the pavement with Zayn; Liam and Sophia following suit, headed for Louis’ house.

“Can you hurry up? We’re so fucking late,” he groans, speeding up his pace. Louis said they could stop by his house for some drinks and then go to some club all together. Zayn and Liam were about to faint when he told them, because Louis also said he was going to bring some mates from the team, so now they’re excited like kids at a funfair. It’s all very embarrassing and they haven’t even met them yet.

“Well, I can’t exactly run on these heels now, can I?” snaps Sophia from behind. “If a _certain someone_ didn’t spend one hour trying to decide what to wear we would probably be on time,” she mocks, making Liam giggle proudly.

It’s not true. And anyway it was an hour worth it. He’s wearing skinny jeans, a gray sweater and a black coat, and he looks _good_. Not that he’s trying to impress anyone or anything. He just wants to look nice, okay? This night is meant to celebrate his comeback, after all.

“I think you didn’t need to try this much, he clearly already likes you,” says Zayn with a grin, trying to keep pace with him.

“Oh God, what the hell?” blushes Harry, throwing his hands in the pockets of his coat, flustered. “Don’t say anything like that when we’re there, please. And he’s straight by the way,” he sighs, shaking his head.

“You don’t really know that,” objects Sophia, catching up with them and placing her hand in the crook of Harry’s arm.

“Wasn’t he with some model last month or something?” pipes in Liam matter-of-factly. “I remember Harry throwing a fit when he saw the pap shots,” he laughs.

“Uh dunno, there were some pictures obviously, but they were just, like, out for dinner? And did you hear anything after that? There was literally nothing, they could be just friends,” says Sophia softly, scolding Liam with a stern glare all the same.

“Yeah, who cares,” snaps Harry, annoyed by the conversation, as he rings the intercom of Louis’ house. He’s out of Harry’s league anyway, no need to be deluded. Sophia grips tighter his arm, giving him a comforting smile. The gate clicks open and when they reach the entrance door Niall opens it and immediately takes Harry in his arms.

“Harry, my boy!” he yells, releasing him after a friendly hug and proceeding to politely greet his friends, who nervously shake his hand. Liam of course kind of knows him because he trains with the first team, but actually they’ve never gotten to hang out with so many famous people so they’re still a bit intimidated.

They head inside, hanging their coats next to some expensive ones on a rack in the hall. In the living room there are already Brković and Andersen and Harry can’t see who else, because Barbara runs to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“About time! You look gorgeous!” she chirps, detaching herself.

“You, too,” returns awkwardly Harry, glancing at Niall who meanwhile has kidnapped Zayn and Liam and is chatting amicably with them. They’ve got this hilarious flustered look on their faces as they listen to him that Harry would so love to take a picture of. Then he realises that’s exactly the face he pulls when Louis talks to him, so. Nevermind.

Barbara is introducing herself to Sophia and in the span of two seconds flat they’re already immersed in some important conversation, so Harry figures he’ll leave them at that and goes to join Niall and his friends.

“Oi Harry, they are Nevan, Paul and Juan,” says Niall as soon as he’s there, pointing at Brković, Andersen and Costa, respectively Manchester United’s forward, goalkeeper and left-wing. The three men who were sitting on the couch, enjoying some drinks, join them, introducing themselves. As if it was needed.

“Nice to meet you,” says Harry, ever so polite. “I’m a big fan.”

“Good to know. Would have been embarrassing if you were secretly a Chelsea fan,” jokes Costa, handing him a glass. Apparently he’s specialised in cocktail-making, learned it in Brasil and everything.

“We also know you’re a big Louis’ fan,” teases Brković with a thick Serbian accent and a knowing look, and Harry blushes, becoming tomato-red while everyone else laughs. He glances at Liam and Zayn who are laughing in their glasses too, trying to be subtle, and he feels so betrayed.

“Speaking of Louis, where is he?” asks Liam curiously.

Niall snorts at that, while Brković rolls his eyes. “Oh, he was barely out of the shower when we arrived. Probably still trying to decide which aftershave to put on,” he explains.

“I went to check on him ten minutes ago. He was in his pants and told me to fuck off. ‘ _I gave you free access to my alcohol Babs, go make yourself a Mojito and leave me alone_ ’" interjects Barbara from the couch, making them all laugh.

“He’s sort of right, you know, Juan is trashing his bar after all,” says Andersen pointing at the mess of glasses and bottles on the small counter.

Suddenly they hear the sound of a car horn from outside.

“The cars are here,” announces Niall, peeking outside the window. “Harry, can you go and fetch Louis? I don’t want to make Alastar wait.”

“Who’s Alastar?” asks Juan Costa, trying to put some order on the coffee table.

“My chauffeur,” answers Niall with a shrug. “Harry. Go and call Louis please, or we’ll never get out of this house,” he urges him, when he sees Harry is still standing there with a dumb look in his eyes.

“Oh. Uhm. Sure,” he blurts out, handing his drink to Zayn and walking to the stairs. He hopes he doesn’t get lost, given this house is like a labyrinth. He goes up two flight of stairs, reaching the second floor. There are several doors, but he sees that one is ajar, a dim light seeping through the crack.

He gets closer and he can hear Louis humming the chorus of _Mr. Brightside_ from inside. He’s very tempted to join, but then he realises he would look like a creep, so he opts for waiting till he’s done to knock on the door, starting to rock on the balls of his feet.

“I already told you I’ll be done when I’ll be done Babs,” snaps Louis. Harry takes a breath before answering.

“Uhm—I’m not Barbara,” he says.

“Oh,” he hears Louis say in a surprised voice and then there’s some indistinct noise. “One sec.”

Harry waits patiently until Louis finally opens the door to his room, and he’s—God. He’s just so beautiful, isn’t he? He has his hair playfully styled in a quiff, these black skinnies that fit him like a glove and unfairly show off his muscled thighs, and, most-importantly, he’s shirtless.

“Which shirt?” he asks Harry, obliviously, as if Harry isn’t gaping at him on the verge of throwing himself at him. He’s holding a nice white dress shirt and a blue button-down.

Harry thinks the blue would compliment his eyes so well, but reckons that the white one would make justice to his defined chest.

Suddenly he has a vision of a Louis surrounded by a crowd of girls asking to dance and feels a pang of jealousy he tries to ignore.

“I think the white shirt maybe? Personally I like the blue one, though,” he says, voice raspy, and he’s conscious he’s not being helpful at all.

“Barbara told me to wear the white one,” ponders Louis, and Harry shrugs as he watches him disappear into the en-suite.

Harry takes a moment to observe Louis’ room. It’s big, the walls painted in gray, curtains blinding yet another glass window that presumably leads to a veranda. There are some nice pictures on the walls, a big flat screen, an open door to the walk-in closet and then the bed, unmade and covered in clothes.

Harry immediately diverts his eyes, feeling his cheeks turn red. He’s such a lost cause.

“I’m ready,” Louis snaps him back to reality, resurfacing from the bathroom, surprisingly wear the blue button-up. “So?” he says, giving a twirl to show off.

“You look stunning,” says Harry sincerely, heading for the stairs and waiting for Louis. “I think it goes well with your eyes,” he adds, and maybe he should have kept that to himself, but Louis is smiling, so he tries not to feel too embarrassed.

As soon as they’re in the living room Niall greets them with a sarcastic clap. “About fucking time,” he says, putting his jacket on.

“Stop complaining Niall, life must be slowly savoured,” returns Louis, grabbing a drink that was waiting for him on the coffee table. “Hi to everybody, by the way. We should split in two cars. Who else brought the girlfriend?” he asks then as he notices Sophia, who rolls her eyes. “You truly don’t love yourself mates.”

Andersen and Costa laugh, while Barbara approaches him to hit him in the head. “Don’t listen to him, usually he’s nice,” he says to Sophia. “He’s just bitter he doesn’t get regularly laid,” she bickers, looking at Harry while Louis is, for once, at a loss of words.

Although he’s in the same car with Louis and they’re actually sitting beside each other, knees pressed together, they don’t speak much, the footballer more busy draining the drink he’s brought with him.

At some point he gives Harry the empty glass, though, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with it so he just keeps it in his hands, brushing his thumb over the rim just where Louis' lips had been, until they arrive to the club. It’s some fancy club frequented by celebrities and they get inside by a back door, proper famous and all.

As soon as they are in, they all head to the counter, ordering a few rounds. Brković and Andersen- _Nevan and Pau_ l, Harry needs to remind himself to call them with their first names- stroll off to the pool table, while the rest of them find a booth where to sit.

They chatter easily. Sophia and Barbara immediately bonded and they’re long lost in their conversation, while Niall talks to Zayn and Liam like he’s known them for ages. Louis smiles at him timidly from his drink.

“Thank you for doing this and for coming to the match,” tells him Harry, because he still hadn’t told him.

Louis smiles charmingly like it’s nothing and gulps a quick shot all in one, bumping their knees together.

After more drinks they all seem to be a bit fuzzy-headed, apart from Harry who stopped after the first two- or three, he doesn’t recollect actually, he’s a bit of a lightweight- and just feels a tad gigglier than usual.

Louis and Niall have gone outside for a cigarette and some fresh air. When they return, with a new round of drinks for everyone, Louis plops down onto the seat, just beside Harry.

He’s close.

He’s basically pressed to his side.

At some point Louis leans in, and they’re just centimetres apart. Harry’s heart beats expectantly, his breath like chopped as he presses himself against the seat, Louis angling his body towards him and smirking. His stare moves from Harry’s eyes to his mouth, and he’s unconsciously biting his lips. Slowly he puts a hand on Harry’s thigh, brushing circles with his thumb, looking at him with dark eyes. Harry is so startled by the unexpected touch that he shifts with a jolt, causing some drink-that he didn’t remember taking- to spill on Louis’ jeans. Brilliant.

It’s like the cold liquid on his leg has the power to snap Louis back to reality, because all of a sudden he widens his eyes and becomes paler, still so close to Harry’s face that he can literally see the shades of green in his blue eyes.

“Oops,” whispers Harry in a husky voice, sliding a finger on the wet stain on Louis’ knee. The touch makes the footballer gasp and gape at him in panic.

He hurriedly removes his hand from Harry’s thigh and shifts away, like he got hurt by Harry’s touch. “I’m—Sorry. Oh God,” he blurts out in a rush, shoving a hand in his own face. He finally stands up and leaves Harry there, confused and forlorn.

Harry sees him grab Niall, who was laughing with Barbara and Sophia just next to them and quickly head to the bar, a bewildered face that makes him look like he’s just seen a ghost. Niall puts an arm on his shoulder and he can see Louis muttering something in his ear, he can see Niall nodding and making a concerned face, he can see Louis ordering one more drink.

Harry shakes his head and presses his hands on his cheeks, which are burning. Louis confuses him. Louis confuses him so fucking much. And the feeling that he could be slowly and properly falling for him doesn’t help at all. The realisation hits him like a train, and he doesn’t know what to think, his head tangled with thoughts and mixed feelings. He’s not even that drunk. Barely tipsy, if that. He’s sure if he were drunk things would be so much easier.

He rubs his eyes tiredly and feels a body shifting in the seat next to him, but doesn’t look up.

“Alright babe?” he hears Barbara say, over the thumping sound of the music. She grips his elbow, curling her fingers in the crook of his arm and puts her chin on his shoulder. Harry just shrugs.

“I think he’s just scared and confused,” she says when he doesn’t answer, seizing Harry’s glass from his hands and taking a sip.

“He’s making me scared and confused, too,” he sobs, pursing his lips and looking at Barbara in the eyes. “I don’t know what to think,” he admits, turning his head to rest it on top of Barbara’s.

“You need to understand that he’s never done this, Haz. And he’s never been very open about his feelings, either. But I truly think he likes you, he just needs to realise it,” she says sweetly, and although Harry appreciates the effort it doesn’t do much to comfort him.

“He’s not doing a good job of realising it, considering he just rejected me,” and okay, maybe he is a bit exaggerating. “I should give it a rest.”

“I think you just have to give him some time to figure himself out,” she offers.

“I know. But I hate that he makes me feel a fool for hoping, he makes me feel dirty when I touch him and the only thing I get in return is that look, and he makes me hate myself because I still like him so much and I can’t do nothing to change this,” he confesses, and he feels his eyes welling up with tears, so he swallows, trying to push them back.

Barbara removes her head from his shoulder to look at him with soft eyes.

“This is not fair to you. You know what? Fuck Louis. Fuck him, this is your night! If he doesn’t want to pull his head out of his arse then shame on him! You need to find a nice and fit boy you can snog on the dance floor, I'll be your wingman,” she decides, taking a hold of his hand.

Harry makes a small smile, wrapping an arm around Barbara’s hip.

“Thank you Babs, but I don’t really feel like snogging anybody to be honest.”

Anybody who isn’t Louis, he doesn’t say, but he knows it’s implicit. He scans the room, noticing Louis and Niall who have moved from the bar to the pool table, where they’re playing a game with Brković, Andersen and some other people. Louis is proper wasted, his hair plastered on his sweaty forehead, eyes unfocused and drink in hand, as he loudly chatters with people and erupts into obnoxious laughs.

“Then I’ll dance with you,” she says stubbornly, taking his wrist and dragging him on the dance floor. “You shouldn’t be miserable just because of some fucking footballer. They’re all twats. Apart from Niall obviously.”

Harry snorts in a laugh, but follows her anyway.

The music is nice and he can feel several eyes lingering on him as they dance their way on the floor until they find a spot, and it makes him feel good. He wraps his arms around Barbara and someway they find their rhythm. Of course from there he has a clear view of Louis, so every attempt of forgetting for a second about him go down the drain.

He twirls on himself, so he doesn’t have to see him anymore, and even if he’s not drunk he manages to enjoy the dancing, the music loud enough to overwhelm the thoughts in his head.

The feeling doesn’t last long, though, because suddenly Louis appears from nowhere, drink still in hand and a frown on his face. Harry doesn’t look at him, trying to focus on his moves and on Barbara, trying to ignore him.

Louis doesn’t cave. He pokes obnoxiously Barbara in the hip, until she detaches herself from Harry. She gives him a questioning look, and when Harry nods with a sigh she gives him a pat on the hip and goes to join Niall at the pool table.

“Dance with me,” slurs Louis, and his breath is thick and smells of alcohol and weed, and Harry feels uncomfortable, his brain screaming how wrong this is.

“Okay,” he says instead, because he’s so, so weak. Louis wraps an arm around Harry’s neck and presses his body against Harry’s. He moves his hips, pushing Harry until he’s pressed against a wall.

Harry looks down at Louis, who angles his head and brushes his nose on Harry’s cheek, and it would be sweet and romantic if they weren’t in some club surrounded by a toxic atmosphere and Louis wasn’t so drunk.

Harry feels Louis’ mouth on his throat, his warm breath leaving damp traces on his skin. He still feels that sense of burning in his stomach, in his lungs, everywhere, really, and as much as he really wants that, he also knows that it’s not how things should go. As he’s finally setting for pushing Louis away, Niall comes to them out of nowhere and grabs Louis by the shoulder with a worried face.

“Harry, he’s too drunk. I don’t want the both of you to regret this,” it’s the only thing he says, as with a look of excuse he tugs Louis along with him.

Harry is left there, alone, once again. He sags to the floor and finally lets the tears shamelessly go. A girl stops by him, asking if he’s alright. He is not, but he nods anyway.

Nobody comes to look for him for a while. When he manages to pull himself together, he goes to the privè and search for his friends. He spots Zayn, engaged in a conversation with a pretty blonde girl. He really doesn’t want to interrupt them, but he also really can’t stand to stay here anymore.

He approaches them, and puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.

“Can we go?” he pleads, voice hoarse.

Zayn turns around, and his expression, which was contorted in a grin, suddenly falls as he sees Harry’s face, red from crying.

“What happened,” he blurts out, serious all of a sudden.

Harry still feels like crying, and he wants to get out as soon as possible.

“Zayn, please. Let’s just go,” he hates himself for spoiling his friends the fun, but he can’t do it anymore, not when Louis is now back dancing as if nothing happened, people rubbing all over him.

“Let me fetch Liam and Soph and we can call a taxi, okay? Wait outside,” he says, then excuses himself to the girl, who nods understandingly.

“Thanks Z. Thank you so much,” he can only sob.

-

They silently wait for the taxi, the cold wind hitting their faces with no mercy, opposed to the toxic warmth of the club.

As soon as they’re inside the car and Liam has given their address and Sophia’s to the driver, Zayn wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders and lets him rest on his chest, feeling the tears stream down his face without knowing how to make them stop.

“Shh, Haz, it’s okay,” whispers Zayn, while Sophia brushes a hand on his knee, protectively.

“I’m such a mess,” he sighs, voice broken.

“He’s not worth you feeling like this, Haz. I think you need to distance yourself a bit until he sorts his feelings out, if he even wants to,” says Zayn, trying not to put too much hate in the word _he_.

“I think Zayn’s right,” says Liam simply, offering Harry a tissue and pulling some curls away from his eyes.

“I’m always right,” laughs Zayn, tightening his grip on Harry and trying to lull him to sleep.

-

He doesn’t hear from Louis until the night after, despite his stubbornness in checking his phone every five minutes or so. He finally gets a text from him, a text which is cold and full of unsaid and unsorted things.

It's just not fair at all.

_You disappeared on us last night! I’m sorry you had to go home alone, I would have told my driver to take you there! I’m so sorry, I was so drunk, ha! x_

It doesn’t even sound like an apology. It’s literally nothing. It only makes him angrier. But what was he expecting after all? A declaration of love? A grand gesture?

He was drunk, he was having a good time.

_No worries, I figured. I was with Zayn and Liam, it’s ok._

He replies, even if it’s not, it’s not okay at all. But he pretends it is, and  after Louis will probably pretend nothing happened, like he always does. And Harry will still be upset, but of course he will take that.

He will take everything from Louis, really, because even if it’s painful, having Louis as his friend and pining over him is better than not having him at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :)  
> until next chapter!


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> José Mourinho I'm so sorry for dragging you into this mess I love you

Harry firmly believes that, unless he has a match scheduled for that day, Sundays are purposely made to sleep undisturbed until lunchtime and beyond. Sundays are definitely made to grumpily wake up and have lunch with some strong coffee to recover from the night before (even though this is not the case, because he just watched some movie with Zayn) and laze about in the hall of residence the whole day, driving the staff crazy. Sundays are also made to snuggle onto the couch in the common room and solve some crosswords from the newspapers he finds scattered around, while Liam texts Sophia non-stop and Zayn tries to watch some football.

In this case, Harry has already planned to wake up as late as he can, then move his body from the bed to the couch and mope for the rest of the day, annoying as many people as he can. He’s actually been moping for a week now, and Zayn has banned the word _Louis_ from conversations, so Harry settled for non-committally sighing and sobbing and they just know why anyway. Louis has texted him several times during the week, and he also invited him over with Niall and Barbara to watch a match at his house, but Harry never answered. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyway, and he surely doesn’t want to see him just yet. He’s too embarrassed and hurt, and he doesn’t want to see Louis act like nothing happened and having to play along, making the rejection effective. He liked to think of himself as a mature person, who knows how to get over heartbreaks and unrequited love with no drama involved, but he’s come to realise he’s really, really not, and he doesn’t know how much of his friend’s comfort, in the form of nights out and warm tea, will take to make it all better.

This is why his plan of a typical Sunday sounds just about perfect. Clearly, though, he must have done something extremely wrong and debauching in a past life, because he is getting his reward in the form of a stubborn phone ring  early in the morning. Like, _seriously_ early.

Harry thinks that maybe this could be just a nightmare, and if he squints his eyes hard enough and tries to ignore it, the ringing will go away.

So he tries. But of course it doesn’t work.

“Will you take the fucking call?” he hears Zayn grumble from his bunk bed, and he figures that unless him and his roommate have taken to share their dreams in addition to the room, then the call must be real. Harry sighs and fumbles under the pillow, finally fetching his phone. He stifles an assertive yawn before answering the call, not even bothering to flash a look at the screen.

“Mhh?” he growls, still unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Oh God, I hate when people answer the phone like this.”

Of course it’s Barbara. Who else would be awake at this time in the morning. Either her or Harry’s mother, but his mum has raised him and knows that Sundays are sacrosanct to Harry, so she has given up on calling him a long time ago.

“What about people who call you at five in the morning on a day off?” he mumbles, voice filled with as much indignation as someone who’s still half-asleep can manage.

“Oh, piss off. It’s already eight and I’ve already been to the gym and showered," retorts Barbara tauntingly. She’s impossible. And Harry doesn’t have the strength to engage in a debate that he knows he would end up losing anyway.

“I’m glad you called to inform me about your morning achievements, Babs. I would like to go back to sleep now, if you’re finished,” he says hoping Barbara will get the drift, burying his head under the pillow, phone still pressed to his ear.

“Don’t even think about that! We’re going out to grab some breakfast,” she says bossily. “I’m actually in a car outside the hall of residence and I’m giving you ten minutes to join me before I barge inside and drag you out in your pyjamas,” she threatens.

Which, given he sleeps almost naked, uhm. No. And _what_? Harry’s pretty sure this borders on harassment.

“Are you serious?” he asks bewildered in a groan, trying to give sense to her words. Why does she have to be so pesky and show no pity for someone who’s just asking to be left sleeping?

“You heard me. Now hurry up.”

-

Surprisingly, Harry actually manages to get ready in ten minutes. He throws his jacket on and gets outside without even looking at his reflection in the mirror, because he knows he will just see the ghost of a face and dreadful bags under his eyes. And he’s not going to pull anybody on a Sunday morning, anyway. So, who cares.

He spots a black car with tinted windows on the opposite side of the pavement. He crosses the road, stumbling in his own feet (not even that much for someone who woke up just about ten minutes ago) and climbs inside the car from the rear door.

“Good morning sunshine.” he says sarcastically.

“You look like shit,” greets him Barbara, ever so kind, not even bothering to hide the judgment in her voice.

“Why, thank you Babs,” he replies annoyed, sagging into the seat next to her. She’s wearing some baggy sweatshirt with a pair of jeans, big black sunglasses hiding her eyes, although Harry can imagine how expectant and inspecting the look behind must be.

“He’s been looking like shit, too. If that helps,” she comments nonchalantly, and although she didn’t say the name, Harry feels immediately nauseous and sick in the stomach at the mention.

“It doesn’t,” he says quietly. Barbara makes a face, scrunching her nose and shrugging, before giving an address to the driver, who nods discretely and then starts the car. They stay silent for a bit, both looking outside their respective window.

It’s strange, someway, because since he met Barbara he had the feeling they never stopped talking. Now though, it’s like she resents him for something and she’s purposely making a big deal out of it.

“You didn’t come yesterday at Lou’s,” she says at some point, finally turning to directly talk to him. Harry obviously already knew where all of this was going. Barbara texted him yesterday to ask if he was coming to watch the match at Louis’ and he didn’t answer. Not like she would expect him to go. But he kind of ignored her texts the whole week, just like Louis’. And also one from Niall, asking if he was okay. So, yeah. He has been a bit shit to her.

“Yes, you know I had a game and—“

“We both know that’s not the reason why,” cuts in Barbara pointedly, without giving him the time to fabricate his excuse.

Harry sighs in surrender. “I know. I’m sorry,” he says meekly, mouth twitched in a sort of reverse smile. He doesn’t know how he manages to fix something in his life and fuck up something else every time. It must be like a natural talent.

He looks directly at Barbara with a self-deprecating smile, that doesn’t last enough to mean anything. He doesn't want her pity.

“Oh, fine, I can’t do this,” she groans, before caving and putting a hand on top of Harry’s, taking the sunglasses off all the same. Harry turns toward her and widens his arms, so that Barbara can scoot closer and hug him, and his smile is a bit more of a real one now.

“I missed you, stupid kid,” she says, before loosening the grip. “How are you babe?”

“I’m fine. Sort of,” he answers honestly.

“We need to talk,” says Barbara, inspecting his face like she doesn’t believe him at all and needs to personally look for something wrong.

They stop at a coffee place in a quiet zone of Manchester. The place isn’t too crowded and they manage to find a more private table next to the window. They take off their jackets, placing them on the back of the chair, while a waitress approaches them to take their orders.

“I’ll take a flat white with almond milk,” says Barbara, crossing her legs and motioning Harry to speak up.

“For me a cappuccino please,” says Harry, smiling kindly and tiredly at the girl.

“Have you eaten at all this week? Or have you just been moping in bed?” investigates Barbara. “He’ll have a double chocolate muffin with the coffee, as well. No, triple chocolate muffin. All the chocolate, really,” she tells the girl, who smiles amusedly while scribbling on her notepad and then moving to go and check on another table.

“Who do you think I am? Of course I ate a lot of ice cream and watched extremely bad rom-coms,” jokes Harry, because reality is, he sort of felt sick in the stomach the whole week. All that cringing didn’t do him good.

“ _Harry_ ,” Barbara begins, and Harry is not awake enough to be having this conversation now.

“Zayn made sure I ate, don’t worry. And it’s not that dramatic, anyway, I’m seriously fine,” he replies, kind of exasperated, because Barbara can be worse than his mother in terms of worrying.

“You haven’t answered a single one of my texts. I was anxious. I haven’t seen you in more than a week, and Sophia told me you were a right mess after the club,” points out Barbara, eyebrows pulled together. “What am I supposed to make of that?”

“It was just the frenzy of the moment,” he tells her with a weak smile. “I’m fine, I promise. I was just a bit upset for how things went,” he explains, trying to pull a convincing face.

“Yeah, okay. But I hate that you’re shutting me down,” says Barbara timidly, leaving Harry a bit shocked because of all the things, he wasn’t expecting this.

“I’m not trying to shut you down, Babs,” he says softly, sliding one hand on the table to briefly brush her arm.

“You are, though. And it makes me feel bad, because if you decide to avoid Louis it’s fine, it’s your choice and I understand it, but I thought we were friends,” she says, a bit upset. And it makes Harry feel guilty for ignoring her, for making her worry, and it warms his heart at the same time, getting to know how she genuinely cares about him.

“We are, but I thought...you know, you’re friends with Louis, first and foremost,” he blushes, waving a dismissive hand in front of his face.

“The two things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know that. I care about you Harry,” she tells him in an undertone, meant only for Harry to catch.

“I—thanks. I’m sorry,” says Harry, helpless.

“That’s okay. Haz, you need to sort this out though, I don’t want to lose you just because of this thing with Louis.”

“You won’t lose me,” he says, frowning, because she doesn’t understand at all what he’s going through, how serious this is to him. “I don’t want to suffer again now that things are getting better for me, now that I recovered from my injury and I’m doing finally good,” he adds, frustratingly.

“Yeah, but you were friends before this, don’t forget it. You can’t avoid going out with your new friends just because he’s there,” she says, voice concerned.

“Babs I—“

“You can’t—“

“I think I’m in love with him.”

Harry covers his mouth with his hands, utterly shocked at himself, while Barbara snaps her mouth shut and widens her eyes, stuck silent for some moments that feel like they last for days. He didn’t mean to drop this on her this way. Actually he didn’t plan to tell anybody at all, he wanted to suppress the feeling, even, he wanted it to disappear. It sort of came out, though, because it’s there and he can’t ignore it anymore.

“Are you sure?” she lets out in the end, sort of defeated, leaning in and trying to reach out for him.

“Pretty sure. And I’m scared of that. Please, don’t tell him anything,” he pleads, covering his face with one hand to cover the flush on his cheeks.

“I would never, Harry. When did you...?” she asks tentatively.

“At the nightclub. After he tried to kiss me.”

“Oh my God,” says Barbara, looking at the ceiling like she’s asking for some help from above. Yeah, that would be appreciated.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I let him dance with me and that’s why I didn’t stop him from trying to kiss me. In retrospect it was foolish of me, because he was just drunk and he clearly doesn’t feel the same, but—I don’t know, maybe Zayn is right when he says I need to distance myself from him, so I won’t suffer this much. Out of sight out of mind, right?” he asks, like he needs reassurance on something he’s not really convinced of in the first place. And that says it all, really.

“Harry, I can’t tell you what to do obviously. But when I told you that he’s shit I meant it, you know,” she says, careful like she’s pondering on every word, like she’s purposely keeping something from him.

“Did you talk to him?” asks Harry, unsure if he’s allowed to, even though he desperately needs to know.

“I did. And Niall, too. And it’s not my place to sort this thing out, you’re both reasoning adults. But I don’t think avoiding him is the best solution you’ve got. Not when there are so many things unsaid and messed up. What about when you’ll be in the first team? And at the training centre? Or if we want to go out? You’ll keep bumping into him. We’re doing a barbecue night at ours tomorrow, Niall wanted to invite you and Zayn. Liam and Sophia are coming, too. I think you should come, and talk to him. I think he will want- I think he wants to talk to you.”

Harry stays quiet for some moments, trying to evaluate the pro and cons of actually confronting Louis. It would be so embarrassing. But also, at least it could take some painful unwanted weight off his chest.

“I’ll think about it,” he says then, before the waitress shows up with their food.

Barbara smiles, but it’s an uptight smile, her lips pulled together, as if she's purposely restraining herself from forcing him to go.

“We would really love for you to be there,” she insists, and Harry sighs because he truly doesn’t know what to do anymore.

“I’ll think about it,” he says again, and Barbara seems satisfied with the answer.

 “Thank you. Now eat your chocolate.”

-

Niall and Barbara live in a big flat in a tall building in the fanciest area of Manchester. Harry has been there a couple of times already, so he instructs Zayn, who’s driving, how to get there.

The building is one of the tallest in the town and the lift takes ages to reach the right floor. Harry feels a bit weird. Not really nervous, more like...unsettled. He doesn’t know how he is supposed to act, and he doesn’t either know how he will find Louis. He sort of regrets ignoring him so glaringly, in a way that makes him look more childish than Louis himself, if possible.

Finally they get to the floor, stepping in front of a big iron front door. Zayn rings the bell and they wait, silently, until someone comes to open.

Of course that someone is nobody but Louis, because that would be Harry’s luck.

“Hi,” he greets them sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets. Zayn snorts as soon as he sees him, pushing past the footballer with no care, bumping irritated into his shoulder to get inside the house. Louis widens his eyes and takes a step back to steady himself. It’s so easy to get on Zayn’s bad side as much as it is hard to go back on his good one.

Sophia clears her throat awkwardly, then goes to kiss Louis on the cheek, trying to shake off the tension of the moment. Liam friendly bumps his fist with Louis’ and him and Sophia head into the house, leaving Harry staring dazedly at the footballer.

Louis stretches out a arm, as if he’s going to reach out for Harry and hug him, a hint of a smile on his lips. But he stops abruptly the motion when Harry takes a subtle step back and just sort of juvenilely waves at him, lips pursed together.

“Hi,” he says sharply, and Louis widens his eyes at him, shy smile fading out from his lips.

It’s awkward. It’s painful. Harry doesn’t look at him but he can sense that he’s hurt too and he wishes he knew what to do and how to fix this, but he can’t forget and make it look like it’s all good  when it is clearly not, at least on his part.

“Yeah, hi,” says Louis again, taken aback. He closes the door and gestures Harry to follow him inside the kitchen. Harry does just that, carefully avoiding bumping into him or simply touching him in any way.

Maybe Louis truly doesn’t remember anything. But he _must_ know, Harry is sure. Barbara said they talked to him, she said he wasn’t okay. He looks like he’s not having a good time, actually. He still doesn’t say anything more, though, he doesn’t try to approach him. He just walks, eyes staring at the floor, head bent.

“You came!” says Barbara as soon as she spots them, jumping out at Harry like she always does. The voice is surprised, as she didn’t believe he would actually be here, even if he texted her until this morning saying that he would.

“I did,” he laughs, lifting her up and feeling Louis’ confused and hurt stare on them.

“Talk to him,” she whispers in his ear before detaching herself and winking with close to zero subtlety.

Harry rolls his eyes and proceeds to ignore her and greet everyone in the room, Nevan, Costa with his absolutely non-girlfriend and  then goes on the balcony to say hi to Niall, who’s on barbecue-duty.

“Harry, are you ready for the best mixed grill of your life?” he says cheerfully, waving a spatula in front of his face with a smug and smartass expression on his face.

“I think I am,” smiles Harry, patting his back. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m all good, thanks mate. Can you fetch Louis for me, though?” he asks, because of course. Truly what Harry needs, when he’s so desperately trying to avoid the footballer.

“Sure,” he says with a nod, before heading inside the kitchen again. He scans the room and sees that Louis is helping Barbara setting the table and they’re sort of having a serious talk in between some banter because Louis places the cutlery in the wrong way and Barbara has to fix it every time. It’s kind of cute.

But Harry is not enamoured at all. Not even the tiniest bit.

They stop talking as soon as they spot him on the door and he deduces they were talking about him, but he decides to ignore it.

“Babs, I can help you finish, Niall needs Louis outside,” he says, taking a step towards the big table and avoiding Louis’ eyes that are now on him. He feels so childish, but Louis should be a grown-up more than him, yet he’s the one making zero sense and avoiding confrontation from the very beginning.

“Oh, good, hopefully you’ll be better than him,” says Barbara, handing him a bunch of forks.

“I’m actually in the room, you know,” deadpans Louis, and Harry lifts his head to look at him, and even if his sentence sounds like a reply to Barbara’s statement he can see that it’s in fact directed to him, his words and the scowl on his face.

Well, now he acts all hurt and disappointed? He should have thought better than trying to kiss Harry and then pulling a yellow-belly U-turn. If he slipped because he was too drunk, he should say so, without letting Harry torture himself for being the one to pathetically hope. And if he wanted it, if he still wants it like Harry thinks it is, then he’s just a dick, because he should know that he only needs to tell the world and Harry would be his, for how obvious he has been all along.

“So, where do the forks go?” asks Harry, still completely ignoring Louis. He goes around the table and stands next to Barbara, hands resting on his hips.

Louis snorts loudly in a half-laugh and brushes past them, muttering something that sounds like “ _ridiculous”._

Harry very much agrees.

“Haz, what the hell,” says Barbara, looking at him concerned and disapproving at the same time.

Yeah, what the hell.

-

They all sit around the table, and Louis is just in front of Harry, which makes it a great struggle to avoid his eyes, especially because it seems like Louis’ ones don’t want to leave him at all.

Niall comes with the food and they finally start to eat, and that gives Harry the opportunity to stare at his plate intensely like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

The chatter is easy and relaxed, and Harry talks to everybody but Louis, who sometimes spares him disappointed glances.

“Nevan can you pass me the water?” Harry asks Brković at some point, because he can’t reach the bottle. Before Brković can do just so, Louis promptly takes the bottle and fills in his glass.

“There you go,” he says, with a forced yet hopeful smile.

Harry stares at him, pulling his eyebrows together. He doesn’t understand where’s Louis at. One moment he is all cold and the next he acts like a gentleman. One moment he looks like he wants to say something, the other he pretends nothing’s going on. He keeps playing, like Harry doesn’t have feelings, and that drives him mad.

“Thanks, Nevan,” says Harry, looking at Louis with challenging eyes.

Louis gapes for a moment in disbelief, and the room falls suddenly silent. Then he abruptly stands up, making a noise with the chair. “I need a smoke,” he announces, before heading for the balcony and closing the glass door behind him.

They’re all a bit startled at the table, exchanging confused stares.

Barbara mouths him something that looks like a ‘ _talk to him’,_ and Harry thinks that he probably should listen to her, so he excuses himself and tentatively walks to the balcony, joining Louis, who’s leaning on the balustrade, giving Harry his back.

Harry clears his throat so he doesn’t scare him. “You shouldn’t smoke,” he says pointedly, just because he wouldn’t know what else to say, and it seems like they’re at primary school fighting for their favourite toy.

Louis slowly turns around, fixing Harry with an assertive look. He stares at him, eyes blue and cold scanning him thoughtfully.

“I barely do it. Only if I’m nervous.”

Harry nods and doesn’t inquire further on Louis’ words, because he won’t give him the satisfaction to know Harry cares about why he’s nervous. He takes one step closer, leaning against the railing as well, taking in the panorama of the city in front of him, breathing in the smoke coming in small puffs out of Louis’ mouth.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” says Louis matter-of-factly, taking another deep drag of smoke, and Harry just wants to laugh in his face, because, seriously, is this how Louis is going to address the situation? How very bold of him.

If that’s so, Harry is not going to make things easier for him, though. He’s good at playing his game, if that’s what Louis wants.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, crossing his arms on his chest, expectantly.

Louis blinks at him, mouth slightly agape, and he seems he is about to comment further, but then decides to stay silent. He finishes his cigarette, discarding the butt into an ashtray on a wooden table.

“How are you, then?” he asks, coming back to the railing, leaning against it, close to Harry, but not so close that they’re touching.

“Good,” replies Harry sharply.

“Yeah, _good,_ ” repeats Louis in a feeble voice, looking at Harry with amusement, and it’s a look he doesn’t want.

“I’ve had an odd week,” adds Harry and then he wants to punch himself, because he always gives up to Louis.

“How come?" mutters Louis wistfully, and there Harry realises he’s not going to do anything about this, at all. He’s not going to explain, to apologise, to clear Harry’s mind. To decide where they’re at. Louis thinks they’re good.

The realisation is sorrowful, because it comes with all the things that Harry could have had, with what they could have been. But if Louis keeps acting this way, Harry is not so sure he will be able to keep going.

Harry widens his eyes and looks at him, hurt written all over his face. Louis looks like he’s about to say something, to reach out for him, a bit torn, instead he takes another cigarette and lights it up.

Harry waits for something, stupidly hopeful as always, but nothing comes.

“I don’t understand you Louis,” he says, voice weak. “I don’t understand you at all,” he repeats, then he turns on his heels, arms falling to his sides, resigned, and walks toward the glass door, so Louis can pretend he didn’t hear him, because it seems like it’s the thing he can do better after playing football.

“Harry—“ he hears Louis say, but it’s not enough, it’s too late. He's had his chance and he wasted it.

Harry keeps walking because he needs to get away from here as soon as possible.

If Louis thinks they’re good, Harry will pretend that they are. Will pretend very openly. But he’s not going to give all of him, his feelings, his love to Louis anymore. And it will be hard, but he knows he needs to at least try.

And probably Louis’ behaviour, his acting this frustrating way, will make things easier for Harry, it will make the burning love that he feels for him fade away, even though he’s conscious that it will be kind of impossible to completely delete that sense of admiration and consideration he has developed during the past years.

-

Even for a footballer, Louis spends a bit too much time inside Mourinho’s office. Not all the coaches demand to have a personal office, but of course he does. And his office says a lot about him, actually. Just like the personal locker of a football player. There are pages from English, Italian and Portuguese newspapers hung on the walls, there’s a black and white cartooned picture of himself, which he really likes, for some unknown reason. There’s the board where he studies his tactical strategies, several dusty prizes messily piled up on a shelf, with the same amount of consideration he reserves to journalists. There’s a picture of his kids on the desk, an Inter Milan jersey on the back of his chair, some medals tangled together, included the one from the Champions League Final.

 _“Why? Why just the Inter one?”_ dared Louis one day, a long time ago, when he still didn’t know how much he could push asking this kind of things and still entered the coach’s office all timid and tentative.

A long time ago, indeed.

 _“Because I root for them?”_ he had answered with simplicity, leaving him completely floored, because this wasn’t the answer he was expecting, and since he was a loss of words he stayed silent, because as much as this was news for him, he still had to learn how, between them two, the one to have the last word is always Mourinho.

He got closer to that shirt, then, arrived in that office as a foreign object when Mourinho came to Manchester, and remained there just like Josè, with no one who dared say anything against it. When Louis got to inspect it better, curiously, feeling the smooth jersey fabric between his fingers, he noticed it wasn’t the shirt from the year he won everything as you would expect. He turned it to see the name on the back.

 _“_ _Ibrahimović?”_ he whispered, not understanding. “ _You’ve got to explain this one, coach._ ”

Josè looked at him a bit taken aback, but he immediately went back to his usual scowl, a mixture of threatening and amused. “ _Are you jealous, by chance_?” Louis snorted at that. “ _If you want your jersey in my next office you’ve got to score at least twice next Sunday._ ”

Louis actually didn’t want that, if it meant Mourinho would leave them soon, but he remembers he scored a hat-trick that Sunday, anyway. It was his first hat-trick in the Premier League, and even if they clumsily tied the match, at least he kept his promise.

Today, he bursts inside the office while Mourinho is busy planning his game tactics, rigorously on a block notes, rigorously with a graphite pencil, one of those which have the eraser on top, because it’s practical, and Mourinho is totally the pragmatic type. He doesn’t even knock the door, he just gets inside and takes a seat on one of those chairs with the back shaped like a stick man.

“Please, get inside, take a seat, make yourself at home,” says the coach sarcastically, taking his eyes off his work just to check who entered the room, only to start scribbling again with a focused frown once he realises it’s just Louis.

Louis met Mourinho in the flash only the day of their first practice session in Switzerland, and he clearly remembers that moment. He remembers thinking that he was a sadist jerk, because the first thing he said was to start the warming up jumping on the steps of the stands. Who would make you do that at the first practice in the middle of July, risking to have a whole team die of dehydration?

Actually, Louis had always admired him from a distance, when he still wasn’t his coach, because he’s always thought of him like a tough and cool manager. He was one of those who asked you to be with him or against him, no in between,  even during the match, when he told them to listen to the _sounds of the enemies._ And Louis just very much liked that.

Louis rolls his eyes, sparing just one moment to take in the details of the room, that he knows by heart anyway. He licks his dry lips and intertwines his hands, placing them on his knees, to calm his nerves.

“Coach. I need to ask you something,” he says breathing in, voice weak. “A favour,” he specifies.

“I already don’t like this,” sighs Mourinho. “If you came here to ask me to let you skip the lap jogs just because you scored on Sunday you can forget it,” he adds calmly, without stopping writing his game tactics.

Louis shrieks in indignation. “I’m not here for that, that’s ridiculous! And it’s not for me, anyway, it’s actuall—“

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, right?” points out the coach. “I’m not the one always complaining if they call you the coach’s boy after all.”

“That’s because I’m totally not the coach’s boy!”

“You sort of are though,” says the coach, looking at him fondly with an amused smirk.

Eh, Louis is kind of his catspaw, in a good way. Always pulling his chestnuts out of the fire during matches.

“Anyway if you’re here as Horan’s ambassador just because he’s too much of a coward to do it by himself, you can tell him that if he thinks I didn’t notice he ate something he absolutely wasn’t meant to eat, seeing the results of his tests, then he—“

“José!” barks Louis, visibly annoyed. The man looks up for the first time to look Louis in the eyes, surprised to hear his first name coming out of Louis’ lips, just as much as how surprised Louis is to have said that.

“It must be something very serious if you had to bring up my name,” points out the coach, putting his papers aside and placing his clasped hands on the desk, in front of him, making him understand that he is listening.

“It is,” mutters Louis, looking directly at him. “You know who Harry Styles is?” he asks, flustered but determined at the same time, without diverting his stare.

Mourinho stares at him for what feel like days, and that glare tastes a bit of condemnation, a bit of sympathy. He nods, without saying anything.

“Could you—would you call him up in the first team?” asks Louis in a whisper, glancing around, as if he’s afraid someone could be peeking at them.

Mourinho still doesn’t say anything. He sighs, instead, then opens a desk drawer and fumbles a bit, making a noise when he finally fetches a blue folder.

He puts on his glasses.

“28th of August, anterior cruciate ligament tear. 4th of September, start of the passive therapy. 16th of September, reconstruction of the ligament. 3rd of October—” he rattles off in an obliging voice, making Louis snort.

“But he recovered! You know that, read it there!” persists Louis, trying to make a snatch of the envelope of papers that Mourinho promptly takes away from him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Louis. He only played sixty minutes during the last two matches and after more than three months of inactivity, you know better than me it’s not enough,” objects the coach, annoyed that he needs to explain things that should be obvious. Everyone knows that making the most from the talents the club owns is the philosophy of his work and that it is one thing, one at least, that he never gets wrong.

“But it was sixty perfect minutes!” snaps Louis. “He’s _already_ fit for playing, if you called him you could figure it out for yourself.”

“You were there,” asserts Mourinho with a blank smile, taking off his glasses to fix his penetrating eyes on him. Louis looks away in discomfort, suddenly more interested in the window, which would offer a nice view of the football field if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s covered by a set of venetian blinds which don’t give him anything to look at.

“Just one training session. Please. Just one,” pleads Louis, hauling himself up and walking around the desk to stand behind the coach, who spins on his chair to keep staring at him. “And then you’ll decide,” he adds, in a tone so soft that sounds like a pray.

“I can’t,” sighs Mourinho. “Two good halves of a match are not enough. I need regularity and perseverance. And not to think about what would his teammates say if I called up someone who just barely recovered from such a serious injury.” he tries to make Louis see reason, standing up as well to face him.

“They would get that. They would get over it. Fuck, they wouldn’t dare say anything, because he’s better than all of them. They know it, I know it, you know it. You’ve seen him play, he’s _good._ He’s so fucking talented,” says Louis, without bothering to keep his voice low. “And you say that you need regularity and perseverance, as if it was his fault that all of this happened? That some twat fucking crushed his knee? When has he not shown perseverance after all the shit he’s gone through?” he continues angrily, banging his fist on the desk.

“I’m doing this for him, Louis, believe me or not. I’ve seen something in that boy, but you’re not telling me how to do my job. I’m here to develop talents, not to destroy them with my poor decisions. Have you thought of what will happen if I call him up and then he fails? If he doesn’t manage to keep up with the practice because it’s too intense for his condition? Because, trust me, he wouldn’t manage. Then I wouldn’t call him up anymore. And what if he discovers I called him up only because you asked me? Wouldn’t that be an even worse let-down?” asks Mourinho unstressed, with a tired expression on his face.

“Oh, don’t say you’re doing this _for him_ and bullshit like that, don’t even try,” admonishes Louis, with a dry half-smile.

Mourinho sighs. He never bothers to explain to anybody his decisions. Not even his assistants, sometimes. They’re called decisions for a reasons, and nobody ever dares to question them.  Everybody had learned how he just does his things and they work out just fine. Apart from Louis of course.

Since day one their relationship has been complicated. But maybe it’s his fault, because he’s never been able to deny him anything. But this time it won’t be the same. He can’t cave, because now someone else’s future is at stake.

“I’ll say it just one more time Louis, I’m doing it for him. Maybe you’re just angry that I’m not doing this for _you,_ ” says the man, caustic, trying to hide the anger in his voice. “I don’t know what’s up with you and this boy,” adds the man, and Louis snorts. “But if you care so much, help him in any way you can, help him overcome this moment. And try to understand my motives. And now get out of here,” he orders, pointing at the door.

Louis snorts loudly and then unwillingly reaches the door in two strides and closes it, assuring to slam it with all the intensity he’s capable of.

-

Louis heatedly gets inside his car, banging the door shut. He’s so fucking angry. Mourinho often has this effect on him, that has to be said. He also doesn’t really want to think about what the man told him, because he’s afraid that reflecting on his words will bring him to a whole new questioning of his feelings and actions, and he’s not ready for that, yet. He’s not ready to think about what is up, between him and Harry, to ask himself why he’s doing all these things and come to an unavoidable conclusion.

He’s trying to push past the moment, because he can’t go back in time and stop himself from doing what he did and ruining his relationship with Harry. Because it’s clearly ruined, even if they didn’t have a big fight. They don’t text anymore, and they met only twice, when Niall organised a barbecue night at his place and invited Harry Liam and Zayn to join and they talked, and it was the worst thing ever, and Harry didn’t stay much after, he rushed out as soon as they finished with the dinner, looking hurt and sad. And then they went out all together to this new Indian restaurant and they barely interacted. And then he didn’t come on Saturday for the usual match night at Louis’ and Louis is not going to pretend he didn’t fiddle on the couch the whole night, a gloomy expression on his face, eyes staring at nothing in particular, all but focusing on the match. A meteor could have hit and destroyed the stadium and he wouldn’t have noticed.

It doesn’t look much like they’re fighting, though. First because they don’t talk, and then because Louis tries to pretend everything is fine, and now Harry plays along in a frustrating way that makes Louis feel at fault. He acts all polite, a cold polite, and going from constant touches and smiles to— _this,_ is absolutely dreadful.

Harry is friendly and fun when they’re with other people, but just the necessary amount of cordial towards Louis. It could seem like they’re still friends, but you can sense he’s aloof and detached, though. It’s just covered because Harry is good at mingling with other people and avoiding Louis as much as he can. The lingering feeling that there’s something unsolved is still there, though. They don’t text anymore, they don’t touch anymore, and everything feels so wrong. The worst thing is that Louis asked for this, and he shouldn’t be complaining at all, because that would be so hypocritical of him. It is also very hypocritical that the only person he wants to see in this moment is Harry. That should probably ring some bell in his brain, but Louis is a master at ignoring things and putting himself in the most complicate situations. He presses some buttons on the screen on the dashboard of the car, which is synchronised with his phone, and calls Harry. He knows this could end up in so many wrong ways, but someway he doesn’t bring himself to care.

The call goes straight to voicemail. It’s probably karma.

He feels like punching something, or better, someone. He figures that he should have done that when he was in that someone’s office, though.

Except he would never do that, because in the end he respects and likes his coach too much and he knows he’s right. Sort of.

Louis fumbles with the buttons of the stereo until he hears a song by The Smiths, then starts the car and bolts out of the car park, trying not to think of anything in particular, letting his brain focus on the most insignificant details of the roads he’s going through.

When he gets to the hall of residence, John, the accommodation manager, lets him inside without questioning his request to see Harry, even though he’s not that good at hiding a disoriented expression.

He’s clearly shocked to find him there, because he’s known Louis since he was about fourteen and he moved to Manchester United, but he hasn’t lived in the hall of residence since when he was nineteen and decided to find his own place.

John tells him the floor and the number of Harry’s room, that he shares with Zayn, and points the lift at him.

Louis gets inside and presses the button with the number three, nervously looking at his reflection in the mirror. He ruffles his hair with a hand and takes a steady breath. He probably shouldn’t turn up at Harry’s door like this. But Harry did that in the first place, right? That very first time, and Louis was so happy that he was there, that he decided to look for Louis. Now the situation’s different, though. It’s like Harry’s over that, and he wonders if he will be able to take him back. If he even wants to see him or will just slam the door in his face.

He reaches the floor and crosses the hallway in few long strides, before he can change his stupid mind. He reaches the room number eleven and knocks the door twice, determined.

“Just one moment!” he hears Harry shout after a few seconds from the other side of the door.

-

Harry makes a dash to open the door, thinking that Zayn must have forgotten his key, like always. He just doesn’t understand why he doesn’t put it on the table beside the door, so that he can see it and remember to take it before going out. Or maybe he just enjoys disturbing Harry every fucking time, and he has this perfect timing of knocking the door at the least advisable moments, like now, when he just got out of the shower.

He hurriedly puts on some joggers and a thin t-shirt, wrapping a towel around his hair, still wet and dripping water, then goes to the door.

“Malik, the day you will remember your keys they will write it in history bo—“ he says, but cuts himself off mid-sentence when he doesn’t find Zayn outside, but Louis. The boy stands in front of him, cheeks flushed and blue eyes scanning Harry’s body. He’s wrapped in a wool gray cocoon coat, hands fidgeting nervously with the car keys, and he looks small and soft and also vulnerable.

“Lou,” squawks Harry surprised, scratching his neck. He quickly takes off the towel he had wrapped like a turban on his head and makes a ball of it, that he hugs to his chest, which is pounding with the beat of his heart. Louis’ glance lingers on Harry a bit more, and he’s suddenly conscious of the unruly mess of his hair, the damp shirt, his eyeballs red because of the shampoo.

They haven’t seen each other in a while, and Harry can’t help having this haphazard reaction at suddenly finding him on his doorstep.

“Hi,” gulps Louis sheepishly, looking down in embarrassment. “I’m sorry I turned up without notice, I—“ he says, then he stops and looks around, like he himself doesn’t even know what to say. Harry looks at him expectantly.

“I had a rough day, I was thinking if you wanted to go—somewhere. I don’t care where, just hang out?” he says, going up with his voice as his tone becomes questioning. Harry blinks, slightly taken aback. Louis wants to go out with him? This is news.

“If you’re busy I can go, of course, I figured—I have no right, I know. I also tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail so I didn’t know how to—and I really needed to talk to somebody,” he says, slouching his arms in surrender with himself.

“Oh, sorry! I was taking a shower and I didn’t check the phone,” says Harry, without adding anything. He takes one moment to flicker his glance on Louis a bit longer, noticing only now the frown on his face, the bags under his eyes, his mouth twitched downwards and not curled into his usual fascinating and gentle smile.

He appears a bit disconsolate, but he decides not to ask any question, not yet. And Harry doesn’t owe anything to him, by the way. He could as well close the door in his face.

“Give me five minutes to get dressed,” he says instead, because he would never be able to turn his back to Louis, despite trying to keep some formality in his tone to make clear that he hasn’t him wrapped around his finger anymore.

He motions him to get inside and turns around, stepping in the room and realising after one second what he’s done. He stops dead on his tracks, trying to block Louis’ view of the room, but the boy takes one step further inside, scanning the walls with a bewildered expression on his face.

The fact is, that Harry might or might not have a couple of posters of Louis hung on the walls. Or maybe more than a couple. And his jersey, too, the one from his first year at Manchester United, when he still wore the number 17, hung just beside the bed.

And, _okay_. Don’t panic. It’s known that he’s a big United fan. It’s just—the amount of pictures of Louis is a bit embarrassing. A bit. Understatement of the fucking century.

How is that it didn’t occur to him that Louis might have entered his room eventually? Fucking hell.

Louis is still standing there, like paralysed, his back to Harry. Then he turns, and his face is positively dumbfounded. He keeps opening and closing his mouth, like he’s so disoriented that even words struggle to come out. Harry covers his face with his hands, and he’s pretty sure his cheeks have never been this red and hot in his whole life. Maybe he’s lucky enough to have turned as red as the Manchester United jersey, so he can disguise himself and Louis will forget that he is here. But Harry is never lucky enough.

“So are you—you like me? You were a fan?” asks Louis finally, taking a step closer. Harry doesn’t answer, he only presses harder his hands on his face, wishing the floor could swallow him whole.

“Am. I still am,” he whispers, trying to ignore his stomach cringing so much it hurts.

“Like, you liked me even before— and you still have all this stuff-“ Louis’ tone is almost incredulous. “Do you want my signature? Or maybe a picture?” he asks with a smirk when Harry still doesn’t say anything, in a valiant effort to make the situation lighter.

He gets closer to him, trying to take Harry’s hands away from his face so he can look at him.

“Oh God. Lou please don’t make things worse, it’s already embarrassing enough as it is,” sighs Harry, sitting on the edge of his bed and attempting to force his mouth into a resigned smile. He doesn’t know what to say or justify himself, really. Nothing could be worse than this, especially after all the things that happened in the past two weeks.

“It’s not embarrassing,” says Louis, but it’s clear he’s just making a big effort in not running far, far away. “It’s cute.”

“What? That you’re my favourite footballer? Or that I’m nineteen and have my walls covered in pictures of my favourite footballer?” asks Harry, self-deprecatingly, grabbing a jumper and putting it on, grateful to be able to hide his red face for another couple of seconds.

“Both things. See, I would have been very disappointed to find your room full of pictures of Brković, for example. It would have been so _unaesthetic._ Saying this for your room, really. At least I’m pretty,” jokes Louis, positioning himself in front of the mirror and capturing his reflex, even though Harry can see he’s spying on him. He gets closer then, to inspect some smaller pictures hung on the wall. He spots one picture in which he’s celebrating a goal, one hand on his heart and the other one stretched out to wave at the supporters, eyes up, hugging the stadium with a stare. He looks so young and so, so happy.

“You are,” agrees Harry, because he’s already been exposed, so he figures it doesn’t really matter what he says anymore.

“This one,” says Louis, some commotion in his voice, taking the picture from the wall to look better at it. “This is from the match against Liverpool, right?”

“It’s my favourite,” whispers Harry, moving behind Louis and sliding his own hand on top of the other boy’s one. Louis leans back against his chest, slightly turning his head to gift him with a bright radiant smile that makes his eyes crinkle and almost disappear.

And Harry is so gone he only wants to kiss him, and as much as he’s tried to keep his feelings at bay, he realises it’s beyond his willpower by now. It would only take one small movement to close the distance between their lips, and what he reads in Louis' eyes cannot be mistaken.

“Did Louis find the skeleton in your closet?”

The startling voice belongs to Zayn, who, for once—he honestly couldn’t have chosen worse time—remembered to bring the keys with him.

“There’s no skeleton in the closet,” says Louis, defending Harry. He puts hurriedly the picture back on the wall, though, distancing himself from where he was all pressed against Harry’s chest.

Zayn snorts sarcastically. “Yeah, I bet there’s something else in the clos—“

“Zayn!” Harry scolds him with an angry glare, while he notices Louis turning around and blushing, looking down at the floor. Zayn like always doesn’t care, though, because he just lays on his bed and puts his headphones on.

He is clearly still quite angry at Louis after the whole club thing, and it’s not easy to get his forgiveness. Harry will have to talk to him. Not like he has forgiven him in the first place. He should remember it before trying to kiss him again.

“I think it’s better if we get going,” he says to Louis, unable to stand how overwhelming and dense the air in the room has gotten, and his mind is blurred and he doesn’t know what he should do or what he should think.

“Yeah—yeah, let’s go,” agrees Louis almost imperceptibly, without lifting his glance.

-

As soon as they’re inside Louis’ car Harry takes control of the stereo, fumbling with the dial and trying to find a song that Louis will like, and it should strike him that by now he knows his music taste like a lot of other small useless things about Louis, but it doesn’t, it feels normal.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asks, sticking one arm out of the window, while they drive across Manchester with no planned destination in mind.

“I can’t,” says Louis pursing his lips, after a moment of hesitation.

“So, to sum it up, you’re very angry and you had a bad day, but I’m not allowed to know why. You still called me to vent, but you can’t actually do that, and you want me to comfort you but you also don’t really want to think about that,” rattles off Harry with a smile. It feels weird to smile at Louis again. “Fine! We’ll stay silent” he exclaims, lowering the sunglasses on his nose and crossing his arms on his chest.

“I didn’t say that,” laughs Louis tiredly. “I realise I’m asking a lot, especially since we—I just had a moment. And I wanted to keep my mind busy, because I was going crazy.I probably shouldn't have called you,” he adds, lingering his eyes on Harry furtively. Harry looks at him in return, listening to his breath which is becoming heavier.

"Do you wish you hadn't?" he asks, a bit hurt.

"No," says earnestly Louis, a sad smile curling his lips.

There is clearly something afflicting him, and it reminds Harry of that very first time, when they met, and Louis gave him a lift and comforted him all the way to the hall of residence.

It’s so easy to forget all the nice things they’ve had.

He remembers how Louis tried to lighten up his mood, to make him feel better, even if they were basically strangers. And then he has an idea.

Maybe their relationship it’s already too scarred, and maybe they can’t go back, but Harry misses him. He misses him so much, and if Louis still cares about him...Harry is ready and willing to pick up the pieces, to put it all together. And he has the feeling that it will take the minimum effort on his part to rewind the tape.

“Louis, pull the car over!” he says suddenly, forcing Louis to a hard braking.

“What the hell?” asks Louis, signalling and pulling over, beside the pavement, giving the car that was behind them a gesture of excuse. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Harry opens the door and climbs out of the car. “I’ll be back soon,” he says, and starts walking towards a bakery he had noticed before.

It takes him only a couple of minutes to emerge from the shop with a brown paper bag in his hand.

He smiles as he enters the car again, grinning at Louis’ perplexed frown.

“I remembered something you told me,” he says, opening the paper bag and pulling out a cinnamon roll, fresh out of the oven and deliciously glazed. He offers it to Louis, who is trying his best, Harry can tell, not to laugh.

“Oh my God,” he says, taking the pastry from Harry’s hands.

“Sugar and a lot of glaze can heal every sorrow, so I’m sure it will do yours, too,” he states, taking the other cinnamon roll from the bag and biting into the soft and still warm dough, covering his face with sugar and making Louis laugh.

“You remembered,” says Louis fondly surprised, eyes soft.

“Of course I did,” replies Harry, because how could he ever forget their very first encounter? And after all of this, how can Louis doubt how much he cares about him?

They eat in silence, making appreciative noises, the car lightened by the sun rays that make them squint their eyes.

“Harry, I’m so sorry,” says Louis after a bit, out of the blue. He has stopped eating and is looking at Harry with a serious glare, as if he is internally struggling.

If he wasn’t shocked that Louis has finally decided to _say something Harry_  would probably laugh at his intense expression.

“What?” he asks instead, clearing his throat, because he doesn’t want to make this easy.

“You know. I’ve been a dick to you and I’m sorry. At the club, I was very drunk and inappropriate and I shouldn’t have. And I should have told you I was sorry earlier, but I was scared you would hate me. I mean, I know you hate me anyway so it was even worse and unjustified for me to act that way. I thought if I tried to forget about it you would do that too, and we would still be friends. I realise that’s not the case, anyway. Got the drift and all that. I really miss our friendship, though, I just want you to know that you’re a really great person and I’m sorry I’ve done this to you of all the people. I really miss you. I miss you so much.”

And wow. Harry feels his heart thumping in his chest, he lends him his ears and his heart, he listens to Louis and his words don’t get lost, they go to his heart with all their sweet honesty. He doesn’t know what to say. Except one thing, because he needs to make that clear, because it’s _important_.

“I don’t hate you Lou.”

Louis makes a grimace and bends his head in embarrassment.

“I really miss you too,” he adds, when Louis doesn't comment.

“Yeah?” asks Louis hopefully, suddenly looking up at him.

“Yeah.”

“Are we good?”

“Yeah.”

And it’s kind of the truth.

Louis smiles now, and turns his head a bit to try and hide it.

“I wanted to ask you. Like, you don’t have to say yes, you know,” he says, staring outside the window. “ I was wondering if you wanted to come to Rome to watch the Champions League match? I’ve got some spare tickets, Barbara is coming, I don’t know if she mentioned it. I would like for you to watch me— _us_ play such an important match. Of course I would pay for your flight and hotel and Barbara wouldn’t be alone. And if we win we wanted to stay in Rome the day after too, and explore a bit, because we would have the day off as a reward, so...”

Harry gasps, and doesn’t let him finish. “Oh my God,”

“Is that a yes?” asks Louis, finally daring to look up at Harry, who’s positively beaming and has his arms already stretched out for a hug.

-

Harry has never been this excited. Him and Barbara took a private jet to Rome early in the morning, to attend that night’s match. The team left two days ago, and on Sunday they all met at Niall and Barbara’s to plan their impromptu holiday. Which is not a holiday at all, given they will stay in Rome today and tomorrow, and only if Manchester wins.

The atmosphere in the stadium is insane. They have two of the best seats in the stands, just along the touchline and they have a clear view of the two benches just in front of them.

Harry feels a pang of excitement mixed with tension at the sound of the Champions League anthem being played inside the stadium, while the footballers from both teams stand aligned in the middle of the pitch.

“Fuck, I’m so anxious!” exclaims Barbara, fidgeting on her seat and gripping Harry’s arm. It makes him smile, because he knows that as much as she tries to deny it, she’s sort of growing fond of football.

Manchester United needs to win this match by scoring one more goal than Roma, because they tied in the first leg match they played back in Manchester.

Brković goes in the middle of the field to shake hands with the opponent Captain, and they can see Louis and Niall taking their places on the pitch. Louis is playing as a left-forward, his favourite role.

The referee blows his whistle and the match starts with the stadium erupting into a collective groan.

“They can do this. They will do this,” says Harry as a mantra, tugging excitedly at his red scarf.

He knows they can win, that they know how to put this one in the sack. He sees Mourinho focused and unperturbed determined face and he has the certainty that he has got this one.

“I need them to fucking win because I want to stay in Rome another day,” says Barbara, even though Harry knows that she’s becoming a hard-die United supporter. “I need this day off like I need air. Do you know when was the last time me and Niall had a get-away together?”

“We’ll win,” reassures her Harry, patting her shoulder with an amused smile.

“I’m not asking for the moon. They’ve only got to put that fucking ball in the net, how hard could it possibly be?” she says, and as she finishes her sentence a Roma player manages to fool the defence and score. The stadium is filled by the chants of the supporters, while the rows of Manchester United fans are stuck silent and dazed.

“Oh God,” says Barbara disbelievingly, widening her eyes.

“Babs, I think it’s better if we shut up.”

-

When Costa scores the goal that makes it 1-1 there are only fifteen minutes left, and the small group of supporters who followed the team all the way to Italy cheers in frustration, standing up to encourage the players.

“Harry why did we agree to watch this torture live? The worry is consuming me,” says Barbara, standing up with the other supporters, hands still clenching hard Harry’s.

The clock is ticking, and the possibility to go to the next stage of the competition is fading away. Mourinho substitutes a defender with yet another forward, and the team is all pressed in the opponent’s box.

They get a corner kick. Harry follows Niall with his eyes as the Irish player goes to place the ball on the spot. Ten out of eleven Manchester United players are in the box, ready to put the ball in the net. Niall kicks it, and there’s some confusion in the box, while the ball is sent outside the pitch by a header from some Roma’s player. Harry sees that Louis is on the ground, crouched, holding his side with one hand, a grimace on his face. He probably was hit by somebody while they were fighting for the ball.

“Do you think he’s okay?” asks Harry to Barbara, a lump in his stomach. Louis can’t injure himself. It just can’t happen. He grips Barbara’s arm and holds on tight, making her whimper.

“He’s fine, you know what a drama queen Louis is, don’t worry babe,” she says, patting his thigh.

The referee gets closer to inquire on the foul and exchanges some words with his assistant. Then he pulls out a yellow card to Roma’s defender and blows his whistle pointing at the penalty mark. They got a penalty. There are five minutes left and they got the chance to pass to the next round.

Louis gets on his feet, saying something that doesn’t sound nice to the player who tackled him. Niall goes closer to the penalty spot and pats Louis on the back, then he hugs him, whispering something in his ear. Louis nods, before taking the ball and placing it carefully on the mark. He’s going to kick it.

“Come on Lou!” shouts Barbara from her seat, and Harry would like to yell something as well, even though Louis wouldn’t be able to hear him, but he’s too nervous and tense to even open his mouth.

The stadium is incredibly silent, and Harry can only hope and trust Louis to do what he knows.

The referee whistles and Louis runs to the ball. He kicks it slowly and centred, with a chip shot. It’ elegant and extremely risky, the ball arches in the air painting a perfect parabola, and it looks like it’s to easy for the goalie to save it, but when Harry looks at him he’s already on the ground, while the ball slowly passes him by and falls with a bounce in the goal mouth.

The stadium explodes with joy from the Manchester United’s supporters, and Harry and Barbara hug, jumping excitedly.

“We won!” yells Harry, unable to contain his happiness.

“We get a day off!” replies Barbara, and Harry beams at her, letting her think he believes she’s celebrating only for that reason.

 

-

 

Rome wasn’t built in a day, and that should have been a clue to understand it can’t be visited in a day, either. They managed to do the most important things, though, the Colusseum, the Trevi Fountain, a quick stop to Gucci for Barbara because that’s clearly a landmark, and they rented two Vespas and went around with no clue of what they were doing, enjoying the cold wind hitting their faces.

They walked to Trastevere, exploring the narrow streets, the magical neighbourhoods, looking at the buildings painted in pastel colours and covered in ivy and found a nice restaurant where to have dinner, deciding to sit outside even if it’s still quite cold.

Harry feels happy and relaxed like he hasn’t been in ages, sitting opposite to Louis and next to Barbara. Niall and Louis look tired but glowing, and it’s a nice thing to see after they’ve been so stressed by the pressure coming from this match.

“Are you happy?” asks Harry to Louis, while they examine the menu trying to figure out the different dishes.

“Very happy,” beams Louis, giving him a big smile. He looks like he is it. Harry can’t avoid answering with another smile, and they sort of dazedly stare at each other, eyes crinkled and heart warm.

“What can I bring you?” they are interrupted by the waiter, a jovial red man with a long beard.

“I’ll take the risotto,” says Louis promptly, pointing at a name on the menu to make sure the man understands.

“Lou why would you eat a risotto when we are in the crib of the Carbonara?” questions Niall, making an indignant sound.

Louis rolls his eyes, closing the menu and placing it in front of him on the table. “Everytime we’re somewhere Niall turns into a food expert” he explains to Harry, and Barbara laughs.

“It’s called research,” points out Niall, shrugging.

“I think it’s actually really nice. And it’s also nice that you take time to explore. Most footballers won’t do it,” says Harry and then orders a carbonara as well, because he trusts Niall when it comes to food.

“We love football and we’re glad it gives us the possibility to travel and find out about new places,” says Niall with simplicity.

“We know we’re lucky and we try to make the most from the opportunities we’ve got. We’ve always done this, since we were young,” adds Louis.

“How long have you known each other?” asks Harry curiously.

“Eh, nine years, I reckon? We were together since the under-13. This tosser was called up in the first team two years before I was,” laughs Niall with no resentment or jealousy, making a ball with his napkin and hitting Louis in the head, making Harry and Barbara chuckle.

“Oi,” protests Louis, but he’s smiling as well.

“It’s nice that you didn’t dump him,” ponders Harry, addressing Louis.

“Why would I?”

“You know, because you could have thought you were too cool to mingle with the academy once you were in the first team...with the fame and...I don’t know,” he stutters, feeling his cheeks become red. He knows Louis is not like _that._ He wouldn’t be in love with him if he didn’t know he is the person he is. But someway is nice to get constant confirmation of his idea of who Louis Tomlinson really is.

“I get what you’re saying, but Louis has never been that kind of person,” intercedes Niall, looking at Louis with fondness. And Harry realises that Niall must have been always there for Louis, going through all the shit he had to endure, and he has known him at his best and at his worst and he must feel so protective over him.

The waiter arrives with their plates, that smell amazing. Harry notices Louis eyeing their pasta and tries to stifle a laugh as he sloppily twirls some spaghetti on his fork.

“Do you want some?” he asks him, before eating a mouthful.

“If you don’t mind. It looks quite good,” admits Louis shyly.

Harry twirls another forkful of spaghetti and offers it to Louis, who eats it with gusto.

“Oh my God,” he moans, covering his mouth with one hand.

“I told you,” says Niall smugly, making Harry laugh.

“We can share if you want,” he offers to Louis. “Consider yourself a privileged because I never share my food,” he adds, pushing his plate towards Louis, who positively squawks.

A man approaches them, he has a beret on his head and carries a box full of roses. They know about these rose guys who go around the town selling roses, appealing to the obligation of gallantry that only a few can turn down so blatantly.

“A rose for this lovely lady?” he asks in a bad English to Niall, who sets down his fork in order to fetch his wallet, visibly annoyed at being interrupted.

“Wait, I’ll take care of that,” says suddenly Louis, nodding at the rose guy.

“Oh Lou,” coos Barbara, clapping her hands.

“He always does this. He loves to make me look stingy,” mumbles Niall in complaint to Harry. “He’s probably a better gentleman and romantic than I am, though.”

Harry blushes at that bit of information that wasn’t absolutely necessary for him to know.

“Two,” says Louis with a smile to the guy. The man nods and gives him two big roses and Louis hands him a note which could probably buy the whole box.

“You can keep the change,” he says, because obviously.

“Cheers, Sir,” says the rose-guy, moving to another table.

Louis takes the roses and gives one to Barbara, and then the other one to Harry, who widens his eyes and feels like he’s about to choke. Oh God.

“For me?” he gasps. Why is Louis like this?

“I never apologised properly. And I think sometimes you look like a rose,” says the footballer, looking at him with a light that Harry has never seen in his eyes.

Harry blushes, stunned, taking the flower and bringing it to his nose, breathing steadily and looking down, because looking at Louis would be too much.

What is he supposed to make of this? He feels his heart throbbing in his chest and a sense of burning at the pit of his stomach.

“It smells really nice,” he says dumbly, sensing a flush climbing his neck. “Thank you, Lou.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” replies Louis, sliding one hand on the table to brush Harry’s. Harry looks up abruptly, locking his stare with Louis’, returning the touch with a timid brush that makes Louis’ beam, under the lights of the Roman night.

Maybe they’re more than good.

-

Saturday nights at Louis’ are tradition. Sometimes he would invite people over, and innocent gatherings turn into wild parties. There are mountains of food, rivers of alcohol and a lot of famous people, and Harry still can’t get over the fact he has met _Steven Gerrard_.

Sometimes, though, it’s just him, Niall and Barbara, and as much as Harry loves how much fun he has at Louis’ parties, he prefers these nights the most, because he gets to conversationally talk to Louis when he’s relaxed and sober, he gets to know him better and better. He gets him all to himself.

They’re better now. The time they spent apart made them realise how much they missed the other’s company, and they just spend so much time together now, they kind of gravitate around each other. Harry is hopelessly still in love with Louis, but it’s okay having him even like this, he can’t complain much. And Louis doesn’t need to know. They still snuggle under that same red blanket, talking for hours and hours about every sort of thing, looking at the sky through the glass ceiling of the living room. He likes how normal and domestic it all is. Harry tells Louis about his dreams, about the future, Louis tells Harry a lot of things, he always makes him laugh, he comforts him with his soft voice. They’re good.

It’s one of those Saturday nights. After the first half of Arsenal-Chelsea Niall and Louis make a dash for the beers, arguing animatedly about which team is playing better. Harry still doesn’t dare to join the discussion.

Instead, he sits on the opposite couch, Barbara’s socks-clad feet in his lap. She surrendered to comfort in the end. She is putting him through one of those tests from a weekly fashion magazine about what kind of person his twin soul supposedly is, and as much as he loves Barbara, this is turning into a worse torture than listening to the pretentious analysis of the journalists on the match, if possible.

Suddenly Harry’s phone rings.

About time.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he makes a contorted face, because he’s not really able to hide when he’s up to something, and sloppily runs to the hall to take the call and at the same time wriggle out from Barbara’s teasing questions, which she’s probably making up on the spot ( _Blue eyes, right? Older than you_? Honestly.) leaving them to exchange questioning glares.

"Z?" he answers as soon as he is far from indiscreet ears.

"Yeah, am I on time?" says Zayn from the other end of the phone.

"Perfect timing, yeah. I hope they won't notice," he says worriedly, sparing a peeking look at the living room.

"Can I go now? I have a date in half an hour. I still don't get why you couldn't put an alarm or something," whines Zayn.

"But like this it's more believable!" complains Harry indignantly. "Anyway, I'll let you go. Have a nice night," he bids his goodbye to Zayn and waits thirty more seconds before heading back to the living room.

The other three all look very interested in the ads on the television, as if they weren’t wondering about his call until two seconds ago and trying to eavesdrop. He smirks, puts his hands on his hips and stomps a foot on the ground.

“Niall, Babs, you should probably get ready,” he announces. “You’ve got a booking at Ombra Rossa!” he explains, when he’s met with confused stares.

“What? I don’t really think so, you need to book ages in advance to get a table there,” says Barbara pointedly.

Ha. He _knows._

Harry widens his arms and shrugs with a smile, trying to pull a convincing face. “A friend of mine booked a table for two for tonight a while ago, but he can’t go anymore. So he asked me if I wanted to take advantage of the booking, and I’m asking you,” he says. “They say it’s the best restaurant here.”

“You’re kidding,” says Niall with a grimace.

“Harry, but if he asked you then you should go!” screams Barbara, not very convincingly. It’s so evident from the way she is fidgeting on her seat that she’s dying to accept his offer.

“Oh God, no. That’s like proper romantic and stuff, who would I go with?” he blushes, trying so hard not to look in Louis’ direction. Of course he has an idea of the person he would like to go there with, but it’s really, _really_ not the case. Not now that things are going so well between them.

“You should hurry up before they give the table away,” he says chagrined, trying so hard to avoid Louis’ eyes, which he can feel are fixed on him.

And he’s okay with spending the night here with him, anyway. More than okay.

Oh God. Does this look like he’s trying to get rid of Niall and Barbara to spend the night alone with Louis? But he can swear this wasn’t his plan. Just a mere and undeniably pleasant consequence.

“Harry I don’t know what to say,” starts Niall, standing up.

“Just say yes then. I’m texting my friend to say you’ll go.”

“Oh my God Ni! Harry I can’t believe you’re doing this for us! We need to return the favour someway!”

“Just give me a ticket for a match if you insist,” shrugs Harry.

“Didn’t Lou reserve you a seat for the rest of the season or something?” objects Niall, and Harry turns surprised towards Louis with a big smile, but Louis promptly snorts and looks away.

“Then don't worry, it's literally nothing.”

“I can find you a ticket for the Champions League final,” smirks Niall.

“Presumptuous much?” laughs Harry, at the same moment in which Louis blurts out an indignant “How can you, Niall Horan?”

“What, you don’t want Harry to come and see us?”

Louis snorts. “You know what I mean. It’s bad luck to talk about the final if you don’t know whether you’ll play that. Especially since we barely made it to the eight-finals!”

“Oh God, you’re such a drama queen. Irish people don’t believe in these things,” dismisses Niall. “I’ll pay you the ticket, the flight _and_ the hotel. And then after winning we’ll go on a holiday and we’ll bring Louis the unbeliever with us,” he says, as Louis widens his mouth in a _O_ and puts his hands to cover a shriek.

Harry giggles amusedly. “Deal.”

“We can go together like in Rome, I’ve never seen Athens!” exclaims Barbara, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Bye then, enjoy your plebby dinner,” Niall says, waving a hand and offering his arm to Barbara.

When the door closes behind them, Louis turns to Harry with his brows arched.

“You’re trying to tell me you’ve got friends who randomly book tables at Ombra Rossa?” he asks with an amused smile, taking a sip from his beer and patting the spot next to him on the couch, motioning Harry to take a seat.

Harry looks at him, offended and smug at the same time. “Oh, woah, you know that not only millionaire footballers can afford restaurants like that? Us under-21 have _standards,_ too,” he squeaks, plopping down onto the couch, as Louis bursts into a laugh.

“Okay, fine, I did it for Barbara,” he admits in the end. “You know, she told me she wanted to do something special, just her and Niall, and I think if she told him he would just say yes because you know Niall, he loves her so much and he probably just doesn’t realise she would like that, but she told me she didn’t want to force him into doing something so I just thought, fucking hell, I could help them, so like, three weeks ago I booked this table and then I asked Zayn to fake-call me, but please, don’t tell them,” he says, words tumbling out messily, looking down in embarrassment.

“You’re a little manipulator,” ascertains Louis with a smirk, handing him a joystick and putting a game of FIFA on, before pulling out the usual ratty Manchester United blanket. Harry has thought multiple times of gifting Louis with a new one, but he understands that Louis is kind of attached to his old one. Maybe he will just nick it and wash it for him.

“Do you think I shouldn’t have?” asks Harry worriedly. He keeps intruding in other people’s business, doesn’t he? But he did it with his best intentions, he just wanted to do something nice when Niall and Barbara have been so great to him, even if they’ve known each other for a bit more than two months. It was just an innocent nudge.

“Not at all,” says Louis with a smile, spreading out the blanket on him as well, as a prize of approval. “I think it was a good idea.”

Harry makes a sound of contentment, relaxing his mouth and resting his body against Louis’, head on his shoulder. He still doesn’t know what’s okay and what is not, when the lines are so blurred, but he dares, because whenever they’re not touching he feels like he’s missing something. He feels Louis stiffening abruptly, but he doesn’t move away, so Harry just ignores it.

“I’m choosing Manchester United,” declares Louis clearing his throat, before selecting the Red Devils.

“This is totally _unfair,_ ” protests Harry in a shriek, poking him in the ribs. “I’m taking Bayern, then. We can predict the next Champions League match. But I will need to buy a couple of players,” he compromises. He opens the transfer window and starts building his team. “I can leave you Cristiano Ronaldo, but you have to sell me yourself in return. I want you in my team,” proposes Harry, sending the request.

Louis shrugs. “That’s fine. I’m already better than you at FIFA, If I had myself in the team the disparity would be unbridgeable.”

Harry snorts as he positions his players in their roles and chooses the alignment, starting the match. He’s not _that_ bad.

Actually, he probably is, because after five minutes he’s already losing two-nil. Louis has just scored a goal with Van Persie and he could as well have just won the World Cup for how much he’s fidgeting under the covers, yelling in excitement. Harry just giggles at his own incapacity, too comfortable in the position he’s found, nestled into Louis’ side, to think about moving.

Louis wins the first two matches, and Harry asks for a re-match, claiming he’s feeling luckier this time.

“Harry! Stop letting my players tackle me, I’ll get injured” yells Louis once they are in the middle of another heated match, pinching Harry’s hip and making him squeal.

“Well, then stop making tackles on my players!” he counters, outraged.

“You should just learn to avoid those. I swear, you’re so bad at FIFA as much as you’re good on the pitch,” says Louis, and it’s probably meant to tease but it comes out as a compliment.

After yet another defeat, Harry decides that pizza is more interesting than keep on losing his dignity thanks to that stupid game, so he shamelessly puts it on pause, right when Louis was about to score his fifth goal, and digs into the box of pizza. Louis snorts, his mouth tugged into a smile, than stands up to fetch something to drink.

“You always leave me at drinking alone, I look sad,” points out Louis, coming back from the kitchen with some cans of beer.

“I don’t like to drink that much, I—uh, actually I’m a bit of a lightweight,” he confesses.

“But it’s just beer, it goes naturally with pizza and FIFA, it’s like an universal combo! Maybe if you get a bit tipsy you’ll be able to actually score a goal. Recklessness does miracles, you know?” smirks Louis, handing him a beer.

Eventually one beer becomes two, and then three, and then all Harry knows is that he’s pressed against Louis’ body and his brain feels fuzzy and aery and it’s good, because if it wasn’t for that he would probably be overthinking about why Louis has his arms wrapped around his middle, hands holding the joystick. Instead he just goes with that and enjoys the closeness again, the feeling of warm breath on his neck, the small movements of Louis, who’s trying to focus on the game of FIFA, while Harry just casually presses random buttons, hoping for the best.

It appears like this tactic actually works better than if he tries to actually play, because he has already scored three goals while Louis only one. Harry also thinks that this could probably be because Louis looks down at him a lot, and tries to push him away every time Harry tries to put his hands on his face to distract him.

“Lou you’re _losiiing,_ ” singsongs Harry teasingly, trying to put his hand in Louis’ hair. He doesn’t really have a clue of what he’s doing.

“Harry, be good,” smiles Louis, taking his hand and gently pushing it away.

Harry giggles, letting Louis score another goal. Then he props on his arms and throws himself on Louis’, making him lay down against the cushions.

“ _Louu_ , this is not fair,” he says, with an impossibly serious tone, putting his arms on Louis’ shoulders to stop him from trying to wriggle out. Not that Louis was actually _trying_. He is more like petrified, his eyes fixed on Harry’s face, mouth slightly agape, cheeks red as he unconsciously splays his legs to accommodate Harry’s body.

“I was getting back at you,” adds Harry, looking at Louis in reprimand. The sight of a Louis in this state, flustered, his eyes glassy and mouth slightly open into an helpless expression throws him off centre. It doesn’t help when Louis slowly lifts his arm and deliberately presses a hand against his chest, in a gesture so delicate that if it’s meant as an attempt to push him away it’s not working very well. Suddenly he holds on Harry’s shirt with a fist, pulling him closer. Their noses are almost brushing together, and Harry has a blurred visual in which the only thing clear are Louis’ lineaments and the blue in his eyes. He bends down, just the tiniest bit, straddling Louis, and even if maybe he’s not in the best conditions to make good decisions he figures they’re in too deep to go back now, so he closes his eyes and presses his lips on Louis’, in one small, gentle and timid touch. His skin burns and his stomach twitches.

He could stay in that touch for the rest of his life, but he figures it wouldn’t be fair to Louis, so he puts a big effort in detaching himself and look at Louis, to make sure he’s not mad at him for taking his lips.

Louis looks back with dark eyes, breath coming out chopped and warm from his mouth, slightly open, and then wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, tugging him down again. Harry lays on top of Louis now, bodies pressed together, his hands wandering on Louis’ sides, he lets himself get used to the feeling of his curves under his palms. Louis captures his lips in another kiss, that brings more heat and hunger than Harry’s lingering and chaste touch. Their mouths clash together, and Louis’ hands cup his face, keeping him in place. They kiss like their life depends on it, the stars only witnesses from the glass ceiling that puts them right under the sky.

They part to catch their breaths, and Harry starts to leave small damp kisses on Louis’ face, on his eyelids, on his cheekbones, on his jaw, to go back on his mouth. Louis doesn’t kiss him back this time, though. He turns his head, taking a steady breath that sounds like a sad sigh and sets himself upright, pushing Harry away.

He always does this, doesn’t he? He gives Harry something, a minuscule crack of hope, and then he takes everything back, like Harry’s expendable, like he’s not worth anything, like his feelings don’t mean a thing.

Harry whines with a pout on his face and tries to take his face in his hands, but Louis moves away, removing himself from Harry’s body and making him lay on the couch instead when he tries to protest.

“You always do this,” he says, laughing bitterly.

“We can’t. We can’t Harry. You’re not sober and we can't.”

“’m not _drunk_ either,” he hums, because it’s the truth. He’s not drunk, and he wants Louis. And he would want him even if he were pissed beyond repairs, anyway. Especially now that he’s had a taste of what it feels like to have Louis’ lips on his own.

“Go to sleep Harry,” he whispers sadly, covering his body with the blanket and fitting a pillow under his head, while Harry keeps mumbling and pouting.

Louis sits beside him the whole time, and he probably thinks Harry has already dozed off when he dares to throw a hand in Harry’s curls, tugging softly, while in reality Harry can feel every painful touch, that lulls him to an uncomfortable sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like cliffhangers what can I say  
> also I want to share [this](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/05/23/article-2329698-19F5E5A1000005DC-56_634x405.jpg) which is like my favourite picture in the entire universe, i need this to happen again, why can't this happen again?
> 
> thanks to everyone who commented or left kudos! I'm sorry I was late with this update, hopefully the next one will be up in a week! x


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say that this chapter is a consequence of the hot weather combined with louis tomlinson drama  
> anyhow i realised this story needed an epilogue so there will be a fifth chapter coming next week! sorryy  
> thanks to whoever stuck with this story until now :)

When Harry wakes up, he feels a piece of paper fitted between his cheek and the pillow. It takes him some time to decide to open his eyes, and some more seconds to focus on the room.

This time he recognises the place at the first glance, every single detail of Louis’ living room he knows by heart, the red blanket that painfully smells of its owner wrapped around his body, the flat screen, now turned off, the fluffy rugs, the bottles of beer on the coffee table. He’s always on the same couch, where he’s spent so much time lately, he wakes up there just like that first night months ago, but Louis is not here, it’s morning this time, and the sunlight seeps through the glass ceiling. He tries not to think about what is going to happen as soon as the accommodation manager will find out he hasn’t slept in his room in the hall of residence.

He finally takes the crumpled note and opens it, with a lump in his throat, attempting to figure out Louis’ shaky handwriting.

_Breakfast is in the kitchen, didn’t want to wake you. L._

He struggles before untangling himself from the blanket and standing up, bleary-eyed and confused, stumbling towards the kitchen. On the counter there are boxes of cereals, a bowl of cubed fruit, some milk and orange juice. He ignores it and scans the room further, a bad feeling in his guts.

“Lou?” he calls tentatively, and he’s not surprised at all when he’s not met with an answer.

Where could he possibly be? It’s, like, seven thirty, at best. He can’t be already at the training ground this early in the morning. Harry wanders around the house, uselessly hoping Louis will materialise from nowhere, but of course that stuff only happens in Harry Potter.

He sits on the edge of the couch again, throwing his hands on his face. Why does Louis always have to do this? Why does he have to act like a child?

Fine, Harry kissed him. But he kissed back, didn’t he? And he wasn’t drunk this time. He must have wanted Harry as much as Harry wanted him, to kiss him like he did, he must have felt that feeling of burn and connection that Harry felt. And maybe Harry relished in the moment too much, maybe Louis kissed him just because Harry was there and was available and didn’t want nothing more. Okay. Fine. But why dash off, all over again, leaving Harry asleep on that couch in his house, without any answer? Why avoid confrontation and leave Harry forlorn and dazed like this? Why kiss him and then reject him when Harry wanted more?

He decides he can’t stay in this house anymore, not when everything reminds him of Louis and the night before. He needs some time to think, and he needs to talk to Louis, because he can’t go on like this. Because he loves him, but can’t stand getting some glimpses of what it could be followed by the footballer’s sudden coldness. Because if Louis wants to be just friends, he needs to make it clear, to stick to that, so Harry can finally get over him and stop believing in this stupid illusion.

-

Harry hates Mondays. On Monday there’s practice after the day off. On a Monday night he injured himself. On a Monday he woke up on Louis Tomlinson’s couch after being kissed and then dumped.

On Saturday they lost to Blackburn, so this Monday is destined to analyse the match, to watch never ending videos until they can spot every single mistake, to get yelled on by Roberts, to admit the responsibility of their own errors.

Harry drags himself into the locker room and places his bag on the bench, looking around and wondering where everybody else finds the strength to _do things._ He feels empty and exhausted, he feels drained and upset, and not even the thought of playing football can make him feel any better. And that says it all.

He puts his shorts on and his stomach burns with heartbreak when he starts to tie his boots, the ones Louis gave him months ago. He puts the gloves on, because it’s still fucking cold outside, and feels another pang of misery in his chest. He jogs blandly to the practice ground, even though the only thing he feels like doing right now is bury himself under the duvet in bed and mourn his broken heart.

He looks around for Zayn, because he really needs to talk to him, because maybe an outsider perspective can make the situation a bit clearer, but he can’t see him. And yet it’s always Harry the one who’s accused of being late.

“Are you out of your mind? What are you doing here?” Ed stops him with a look of reprimand, before he can step on the turf of the practice ground. Harry comes to a halt, perplexed. Okay, he’s upset and angry and he barely slept, but he’s clear minded enough, why does everybody feel the need to confuse him?

“What do you mean? I’m here to practice,” he replies defensively with an empty look. He definitely doesn’t have the strength to put up with this stuff today.

Ed stares at him blankly, then he beams, mildly amused.

“ _Oh._ You didn’t see, did you? Why don’t you go and take a look at the notice board?”

Harry stares back for the fraction of time it takes him to realise what Ed is on about. Then he understands, and dusts off, headed to the administration office, praying hard he’s not imagining it all. He can’t kid himself, it could be anything. It could be a prank. Or maybe he’s still sleeping on Louis’ couch and this is all a dream. An extremely unfair dream. He gets in front of the notice board, where Zayn is standing. When he turns around and spots Harry, he gives him the brightest smile, pointing at a piece of paper on the board. The calls for the first team practice. It’s real.

_Aggregated from the under-21 academy: Gomez, Payne, Malik, Styles_

-

As soon as they’re inside the first team locker room, Zayn and Harry figure they need to stop with the goliardic self-celebratory chants because they’re in fact embarrassing themselves. Liam is following them with an amused grin and points them out their seats on the bench and the three lockers with their names already on them.

“This is mental,” murmurs Zayn, widening his eyes.

“Here there are some drinks and water, while the warm towels are on that table,” explains Liam, showing them around the room.

Harry still feels a bit dazed and disoriented as he’s taking in the surrealism of the situation, when he sees Louis entering the room, chatting with Niall, who’s got his arm draped around Louis’ shoulders. Suddenly the feeling that was eclipsed by the pure joy of being called up to the first team surfaces again, and he can’t ignore the need to throw up, the uncertainty of not knowing what to do, how to approach him.

Louis freezes the moment he notices Harry, and his jaw drops, while his face shows like an open book all the thoughts wandering in his head, w _hat are you doing here, why now, of all the moments, why today._

Harry feels a lump in his throat, his stomach twisting in disappointment when the footballer finally gets going and moves past him, ignoring him completely.

“Louis!” he calls, starting to walk closer to him. Louis fumbles quickly with the flap of his locker, taking the kit with his name with shaky hands, not sparing Harry of a glance.

“Lou...” Harry gets to him and grabs onto his arm. Louis wiggles out of his touch like he’s scared of him. It hurts.

“Yeah, hi. Sorry, I need to get changed,” he stutters sharply and nervously heads to the toilets, leaving Harry addled and stock-still in the middle of the locker room. Niall makes him a face from afar, pursing his lips. Harry can’t figure what it could mean and can’t even bring himself to reply, his brain too fuzzy and shook up, when the only thing he can focus on is Louis’ silhouette disappearing behind a door.

“Haz, Zayn, better you get changed, too. Mourinho is easily irritable. Like, _very_ easily,” he hears Liam say, unaware of the tense exchange.

Zayn comes behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder, giving him a questioning look. He knows he needs to tell Zayn the whole story, but he doesn’t want to be late and doesn’t even want to ruin the happiness of the moment, so he mutters they’ll talk after practice, and starts to wear his new kit. When he’s done he follows Liam like a robot onto the pitch, where they part ways because Liam needs to practice with the other goalkeepers.

Mourinho is walking by the group of footballers warming up in a circle. He’s writing on his proverbial block-notes. Sometimes he looks up, stares at something, then looks down again, scribbling frantically. When he spots Harry and Zayn he arches his eyebrows, sparing them a cold glance as they sit down in the circle.

Harry has never felt more misplaced and uncertain as he is now, propping on his knees and stretching a leg to make a lunge, something he has done a thousand times. But never like this, among experienced footballers who are grown-up men, who do this as their job, sitting between Gomez, who’s already used to this because he trains regularly with the first team, just like Liam, and Zayn, who is beaming from excitement and enthusiasm, not a trace of nervousness on his face.

He wanted to sit next to Louis so bad. He knew if the circumstances were different the other footballer would have spent the whole session whispering him words of encouragement with his soothing voice, putting him at ease. He knows how much this meant to Harry, and he surely knows how nervous he feels. Instead, the number ten slipped between Brković and Niall, who keeps giving Harry reassuring smiles from where he is sitting opposite him, although he doesn’t manage to smile back.

Louis keeps stretching his limbs quietly, looking down and not taking part to the conversation and the banter of his teammates, who at least are trying to make them feel at ease.

Harry feels such a stupid now, for thinking about this moment for so long. He’s always imagined this like one of the best moments of his life, and even more since when he actually got to know Louis, thinking of how wonderful would be training together with his favourite footballer and close friend. And now that he’s living the moment, he can’t even savour and relish it, he doesn’t even notice what happens around him, because of some stupid boy. Because he can’t focus on anything but Louis, stupid, beautiful, fucking Louis, who doesn’t divert his eyes from the ground and who keeps avoiding him, who thinks Harry is not even worth an explanation.

He doesn’t get these shifts in his behaviour. He _told him_ he cares about him. He told him he missed him when they were avoiding each other. Maybe the kiss was a slip, then why not ignore the thing? Why not say, fuck, that was a mistake, let’s forget about it and never do it again?

Harry would be okay with that. It would be painful, sure, now that he’s had Louis’ lips on his. But it would also be better than this fucked up situation.

Mourinho, who stopped just behind him and Zayn to observe their work, suddenly clears his throat, and the whole group is abruptly stuck silent.

“You two. First practice and you’re already late, not bad at all,” he comments. “Payne!” he yells then to Liam, who’s practicing beside the goal mouth and promptly looks up with flushed cheeks. “Show them how nice is running  laps around the field after practice,” says the Portuguese man sarcastically, patting a very flustered Zayn on the back. “Twenty,” he adds slyly.

Amazing. What a way to make a first good impression on your possibly new manager.

“Come on coach, leave those kids alone,” laughs Brković in their defence, splashing Mourinho with some water from his bottle.

Harry wonders where does Nevan find the nerve, given that after two minutes he’s already scared shitless of the coach.

Mourinho spares Brković a challenging glance, pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then on the Serbian captain, who bursts into a loud laugh. Mourinho smirks, then commands them to hurry up and wear their sport bibs for the scrimmage, because they can’t waste any more time and he’s sure at Chelsea’s practices they don’t joke around like this and that’s probably why they’re at the top of the table.

He throws a purple sport bib to Harry, and to Louis as well, then he gestures him to come closer.

“Styles, I only explain things once, you get me?”  he says in a strong Portuguese accent, and Harry nods without replying.

“You’re talented, Styles, but you’re a son of the wind,” he explains, making Harry’s eyes widen. A son of _what?_

“My task is to put you in the team and make it work, but I don’t want to fuck you up. _Não vai acontecer_. You need to understand that this team believes in you, but your journey will take time. Not even that much, though, if you follow my guidelines and my advice.”

Harry nods again, because it seems like it’s the only thing he manages to do, but it’s still an uncertain nod. He’s about to play with footballers who know how to play with each other, who practice together every day, who have won everything, even the Champions League. Mourinho’s words calm him, though, but just the tiniest bit.

“They’ve won everything,  but you’re going to win even more, _Pup,_ ” says Mourinho, putting a hand on his shoulder, and Harry wonders how can the man read him so easily. “Take your position on the right, like in a midfield rhombus, you and Brković just behind Louis. _Claro_?” he instructs, clapping his hands so they’re off to their spots on the pitch.

It is more a nightmare than a scrimmage, though. Everybody is acting very nice, trying to make things easy for him and Zayn, while Liam can’t stop giving him a thumbs up anytime he jogs past his box.

But Harry often finds himself running without a purpose, trying to keep an eye on the ball and at the same time attempting to put into practice the instructions Mourinho is yelling from his area. He wants to build the game, to be useful, but he can’t concentrate, because he can’t help observing Louis, giving him questioning glances that go wasted, because he’s totally ignoring him, even if they’re playing close to each other and they should be cooperating. Louis plays head down instead, only focused on the ball, and he never passes it to Harry, as if he has forgotten they’re supposed to be playing for the same team.

At some point Louis scores, leaving Liam outwit, but he doesn’t even smile, nor celebrate. Brković and Niall give him steady pats on the back, and Niall even tries to jump on him for a piggyback ride, but Louis in only worried of putting back the ball on the center spot to start practicing again.

After fifteen more minutes Mourinho subs Harry with Rodrigues, who glares at him, probably because Harry is playing in his same position. Well, sue him for trying to make his dreams come true.

He steps out of the pitch panting, heading directly to the locker room, head bent in shame, but Mourinho stops him gripping on his wrist.

“Okay?” he asks, eyes fixed on Harry’s flushed face.

“I’m sorry coach, I was rubbish, I know,” he says, taking a bottle and chugging a mouthful of water, massaging his knees more as a reflex than as necessity.

“Don’t ever say that, Pup. Help me find a bucket somewhere instead,” and he strolls off to the locker rooms, leaving his assistant to supervise the end of the training session.

Harry gives him a perplexed look but follows him anyway, because he figured that disobeying to Mourinho is not the best idea he can come up with. Not to say he already has to run twenty laps after practice. He definitely doesn’t want more.

The man finds a big enough bucket behind some shelves in the storage room, and asks Harry to help him fill it with water. Harry complies without inquiring.

“So, you know Louis then?” questions the coach with a high-pitched voice, trying to overcome the noise of the water flowing from the tap. Of course it was all leading to this.

“Yes,” he deadpans dryly, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from revealing more, to stop himself from exploding. Mourinho looks at him thoughtfully.

“Do you want to know something, Pup?” asks the man in a serious tone.

“What?” Harry stares at him, cringing tiredly.

“Look how Louis plays, coach Louis, you can see how big of a talent he is. If you wait for him to run his butt off from one side of the pitch to the other you might as well become old, but I can’t become old and not win another Champions League. You need to understand that he stays there, he’s made to give the right direction to the ball with just one precise touch, to make the pass you’ll never expect. He’s smart. Very. And the football loves him, and you don’t understand why, you just have to accept it, it is what it is. You need to let him do his things. But to do well, he needs to know you trust him, because when he feels unsure he fucks up. _Badly_. And he’s a pro at that. Do you understand?”

Harry looks up from the bucket, almost completely full of water, to check on Mourinho’s face, which is blank. Harry wonders what _exactly_ does he know. Because he has the feeling he wasn’t talking about football at all.

“Are you friends then?” he tries to shake him from his silence. Good question. Are they friends? Why would Harry know, given Louis doesn’t even look at him?

“Mhh,” he mumbles, in a tone that could mean anything, while the lump in his throat gets bigger and bigger.

“But you didn’t interact on the pitch. If I have to be honest it’s not what I was expecting, after he implored me to call you up to the first team,” he lets slip, definitely not by accident.

 _”What?”_  the handle of the bucket slips away from Harry’s grip and the container hits the floor, splashing some water on them.

“I figured it was very important to him. For the record, Pup, I said no. So don’t start being paranoid that you’re here just because Louis asked me. It happened more than three months ago, and I already wanted to call you up before you injured yourself. Now, help me dump this bucket of water on Brković,” he says, motioning to follow him, ignoring Harry’s speechless bewilderment.

-

Harry is standing in front of the gate outside Louis’ house. It’s ridiculous how many times he has found himself in this situation in the last few months. This time, though. This time is different, and the worst of them all.

He stands there, still, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, taking some moments to think of what he will tell Louis. He feels like this is the turning point, he feels like he needs to display all the things he thinks and he’s thought during the last few months, because if Louis doesn’t want to talk, at least one of them should put it all out so that they can get away from this painful stalemate.

He is sure Louis’ home, because even from outside he can see from the window that the light is on in the living room, and he won’t leave until Louis doesn’t let him in. He rings the intercom and waits, tapping nervously his foot on the pavement. He waits, but of course there’s no answer, so he rings the intercom again, stubbornly, because if Louis thinks that this ridiculous behaviour is enough to dissuade him then he doesn’t understand a damn thing about Harry. He won’t give up on this, should he have to spend the whole night on the pavement to get an answer. Because he _deserves_ one.

He rings it again, and again, and when he’s not met with a reply he just obnoxiously keeps his finger pressed on the button, until he actually hears that metallic sound of someone finally picking up.

“Give it a rest, please,” sighs Louis’ voice through the speaker, and it sounds far and aloof even if Harry knows he’s just there behind the closed door, only a few steps away, and it leaves him beaten, like a punch in the face would.

“Louis,” pants Harry hurriedly in surprise, and before he can say anything else he hears Louis put the receiver down. The fucking _nerve_.

He doesn’t get to do this to him. He can’t fathom the thought of a Louis who suddenly doesn’t care, who is okay with not seeing him, after all the things that happened, after what Mourinho told him. And Harry might be a bit stubborn and juvenile, but he won’t give him up so easily. He takes some steps away from the gate and cups his hands around his mouth, starting to shout Louis’ name repeatedly, louder and louder as he goes. He keeps doing it for a bit, until he hears Louis’ voice again, and he rushes closer to the speaker of the intercom.

“You’re going to wake the whole neighbourhood up,” he states, unstressed, sounding more tired than angry this time.

“As if I care,” answers Harry pointedly. “Let me in, Louis,” he demands sharply, curling his fingers around a bar of the gate with such intensity that he could bend it if he wanted to.

“Go away please,” Louis says instead, with a voice that sounds foreign to him, and Harry for some ridiculous reason feels the tears building up in his eyes and already blurring his vision.

“You don’t mean it,” he sighs imploringly, and he scolds himself for being so weak and ridiculous when he promised he would act mature and reasonable. But he doesn’t get to feel ashamed, because Louis’ next words hit him like a train.

“I’m not ready to see you. It’s already bad as it is, trust me.”

“I only want to talk Lou. Please,” Harry feels like choking, and his voice breaks.

“You want to _talk_?” Louis says, and the tone of his voice makes Harry cringe. “Talk about what? About what happened? I don’t need you to tell me I didn’t have to kiss you, I don’t need you to tell me thanks but no. I’m sorry that you were drunk and you couldn’t think properly and you trusted me and I was such a twat. Okay? You can go back to hate me now, you don’t really have to talk to me. Spare your words and your pity for someone more important,” Louis almost shouts, and Harry can feel he’s on the edge, too, can feel that he’s touched by this thing, as much as he is, and that’s his hint to not give up yet, that’s his tiny crack of hope.

“As if there could be somebody more important than you,” he exhales, tightening his grip on the bar of the gate and leaning with his forehead against the cold iron.

“What?”

“As if you don’t know,” as if Louis doesn’t know, how besotted Harry s with him, when everybody else has noticed ages ago.

“Stop Harry,” he pleads, even though he doesn’t put down, almost like he's hypnotised by Harry’s words.

“As if I could ever avoid you. As if I wouldn’t be miserable. What about practices?”

“You can avoid me there, too. I think you’ll manage just fine,” whines Louis.

“You _think_ I’ll manage?” asks Harry incredulously, and now he’s yelling. “You wanted this, Louis!”

“I don’t understand,” replies the footballer, managing a tone all cool and detached.

“You’re such a twat, Louis. _You_ asked Mourinho to call me up in the first team.”

Harry can hear Louis take a steady breath, that sounds like final resignation, like caving.

“Harry I—“

“Do you really want to do this through an intercom? How very bold of you,” counters Harry judgingly, cutting him off before he can tell him to go away another time.

Louis stays silent, and Harry thinks that this is it, he will put down the receiver and he will leave him here the whole night. Instead he unexpectedly opens the gate, and at the click it’s like something melts in relief and hope inside Harry’s stomach.

He covers the path that leads to the front door in a few long strides, before Louis can change his mind and shut him down again. He finds the door ajar, and Louis is not in the hall to meet him, so Harry gets inside the house, closing carefully the door behind him. He heads to the living room, where he finds Louis, curled up on the couch, arms wrapped around his legs, staring blankly at the television, even if it’s clear, from his tense posture, that he’s not paying attention to what it’s on. There’s a steamy mug of tea on the armrest of the sofa, but it’s still full, and Harry just from that knows that Louis is not okay at all, because he would never forget about his tea. He hears him sigh and turn the volume of the television up, to try and keep ignoring Harry, even if he’s right in the middle of his living room.

Looking at him from afar, though, Harry feels all the anger and the resentment fade, as he makes out a clearly messed up Louis, hair ruffled and eyes red, face like sunken in. He appears so small and defenceless, and Harry thinks that his heart will explode if he doesn’t get close, if he doesn’t touch, if he doesn’t make sure he’s fine.

He walks to the boy and sits on the couch, next to him, still leaving some space between them. Louis sags further into the cushions, scooting closer to the armrest, and that feels like a punch in the stomach to Harry. He can’t avoid thinking that it’s like he’s in need of a shield, like he’s scared. Scared of _Harry_.

How did they go from cuddling under the blanket to _this_?

“Well?” says Louis without looking at him, after a long silence. Harry still doesn’t talk, tilting slightly his head to take in the painful view of Louis. Harry sighs, then retrieves the remote and turns the television off, so Louis doesn’t have an excuse not to look at him anymore. It surprisingly works, but Harry was not ready to face the sharpness of those blue eyes.

“You’re in. Are you happy? You can punch me if you want, I deserve it. I won’t fight back,” goes on Louis, fidgeting on his spot and widening his arms in invitation.

“I don’t want to hit you,” whispers Harry, getting yet a bit closer and trying to put his hand on Louis’ leg. But Louis wriggles out restlessly, pressing himself against the armrest even more.

“And what then?” he asks expectantly, lifting his head up. Harry is at a loss of words, for once, all the things he thought he would tell him lost in a confused mess in his brain.

“Louis...” he pleads, taking time, and the only thing he can focus on is the other boy’s profile.

“No, you wanted to talk. You can talk. I don’t understand what you want to talk about to be honest, we already established I’m a twat, you can move on. In fact, you should be avoiding me,” he says despisingly, making Harry feel bad for going at him that way.

“I don’t think you’re a twat. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay," he nods. "Okay. If you’re angry about the first team thing, by the way, Mourinho told me no. So I get that you’re pissed off, but you need to know it’s not an issue,” he explains, curling up on himself so that he looks even smaller. "You're there because you deserve it, not because I asked him."

“Yeah, I know,” whispers Harry sheepishly, stopping himself from reaching out to Louis because he clearly doesn’t want that. Yet.

“You _know_? But you said- ”

“He told me that, too. But it remains the fact that you asked him to call me up. Why?” Harry dares to move a little closer to Louis, even if the footballer looks quite uncomfortable. At least he’s still speaking to him.

“Because—“ he says, uncertain and nervous. He’s gaping at Harry, mouthing words that don’t come out at all, panic written all over his face. Then he doubles over his lap and hides his face in his hands. And he just. Crumbles. “You must know why Harry,” he squeaks, voice muffled with sobs and embarrassment.

“I need you to tell me. It’s all so childish Louis, we’re not kids anymore,” insists Harry in exasperation, even though he just wants to take him in his arms.

“We sort of are,” says Louis, a sweet note in his tone of voice. “I feel like one, most of the time. I know you hate me for that.”

“You keep saying that I should avoid you, that I should hate you. You need to stop. I could never hate you,” says Harry, and it irritates him that his words and his feelings make Louis snort.

“Why are you doing this to you?” he asks.

As if this is all Harry’s fault for wanting to stick to him. It's not like he can choose who he falls in love with.

“ _I_ am doing this to me? What the hell Louis! You keep rejecting me!”

“I’m not rejecting you, how could I? I—I have to. I don’t want to, but I have to,” struggles Louis, throwing a hand in his hair.

“You don’t want to?” he asks, and he hates that he needs to extrapolate his feelings from Louis, that he needs to deduce the truth for himself because he won't speak clearly.

Louis purses his lips and shakes his head frantically, like a puppy, but doesn’t say anything. Harry waits silently, just looking at him, and Louis waits too, anxiously, biting his lips.

Harry feels his heart breaking, and maybe Louis still doesn’t want to, maybe he will never want to, but Harry needs him to talk, he needs to ask, to get his answers, even if Louis is not ready.

“Lou, please,” Louis catches Harry’s eyes for the first time since he entered the house, and they look at each other for a fraction of time that Harry can’t quantify, before Harry interrupts the contact lowering his face in his hands.

But Louis takes Harry’s hands away from his face this time, tenderly, and Harry sobs in relief at the contact, because at least Louis’ still cares, still touches him, still wants to comfort him.

“Don’t cry Harry, you’re breaking my heart,” he almost implores, sounding so, so young.

“I can’t help it,” sobs Harry in apology, wishing he could stop the tears.

“Okay. Okay. What do you want then?” caves Louis, placing his hands on his own knees.

 _You._ Harry thinks, but he doesn’t give voice to the thought, because he needs to hear it from Louis first, to be sure. He needs Louis to be the one to fix this.

“An explanation,” he says instead.

Louis nods resignedly, then abruptly stands up and walks towards the glass door that leads to the garden. “Right. Fine,” he says, and stops in front of it, giving his back to Harry. “Fine,” he repeats, shoving his hands in his pocket, then he clears his throat and starts to talk.

“I’m not out. I know you know that. There’s not a single footballer out in the Premier League. Or in any important European League for what I know. Amazing, innit? I’m out to the team, though. I came out to them about one year ago, when they made me vice-captain. Thought I owed it to them, because I had a sort of responsibility over the whole team. And I also wanted them to respect me for who I am. But I pondered a lot on the past years during the last few days, and I was thinking that maybe in some kind of way I was actually trying to tell myself I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t what everyone expected from me, that great player everyone thought I was, so I was looking for someone else to put me down, to shove it in my face, because I was a coward. By all means, I’m still a coward. I think you figured for yourself,” says Louis, mouth twitched into a self-deprecating smile.

“I don’t think you’re a coward,” blurts out Harry, frowning. He doesn’t know if Louis is looking for reassurance or he seriously has this sleazy and deprecating view on his own person. He’s always thought Louis’ life required a lot of bravery and fortitude, even when he didn’t know half of his story. And he figures that what he kept hidden must be painful and not particularly easy to put out now.

“Well, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am one. Surprisingly nobody said anything, though. They were very respectful and understanding, at least in front of me. It wasn’t always good, anyway. There were some bad moments, some nasty episodes, a lot of hate and jealousy going on, but of course it always stayed in the locker room. The club has always been good at shutting rumours down. And Mourinho has always been great with me. Niall and Nevan, too. The best support I could ask for, really. But it wasn’t always easy for me, even with their help. Hell, it wasn’t easy for me to accept it, in the first place! I’m way past that, now, by the way. I don’t want you to believe I’m confused or anything like that. I grew up and I figured out some important stuff about life, I figured _myself_ out. It was painful, because I was young and naive, away from my family, from my safe place, but it made me stronger, and it was worth it, if it led to what I am now.”

Harry listens carefully to Louis’ words, mouth slightly agape. He’s glad Louis’ deciding to share this with him, but he can’t avoid thinking that if he is sure, if he doesn’t regret being who he is, the problem maybe lies somewhere else. In someone else.

“But if you’re sure, why—? Is it me or—?” he asks tentatively, mouth twitched downwards.

Louis turns around with a sad and bitter smile and walks behind the couch, placing both hands on Harry’s shoulders.

“See, I’m such a coward that now you’re thinking this is all your fault and it makes me feel sick in the stomach. If anything, you’re too much for me,” he admits, releasing his brief hold and taking a couple of steps away.

Harry blinks, feeling like his stomach is melting. He wants to counter that it is quite the opposite, but before he can speak up, Louis starts to talk again, and he shuts up, because he doesn’t want to miss anything.

“I knew I couldn’t properly come out. When I started to tell the people close to me, I mean, and then my managers. I was so young and about to break it into the football that counts. Imagine that, world famous emerging footballer is gay. They would have destroyed me. And I wouldn’t have made it to where I’m now. I don’t think Manchester United would have stuck with me, for once, and Mourinho wasn’t there yet, so I wasn’t sure of the support I could count on. And it was already hard enough to endure all the shit I’ve been through without adding people judging me because of my sexuality. I don’t think I would have been able to stand through it. People intruding in my life, in my family, speculating on who was in my bed every night. I already had that in some form and it wasn’t nice, even if I learnt not to care,” explains Louis earnestly, his blue eyes twinkling with grudge.

Harry looks at him, and it’s like he sees a whole new person in front of him. He imagines a younger Louis, dazed from the success, scared and excited of the world he was in, having to deal with all this sort of things, all on his own. Having to look his every step. He looks at him and he sees this Louis, a wonderful person, and he sees that young Louis too, and he wants to protect him, to spare him from all the foul and nasty circumstances he must have been put through.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, looking down at his lap.

“You don’t have to be,” replies Louis right away, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “It was ok, the closet and everything. I mean. It wasn’t brilliant, of course, and I wasn’t happy that things had to be that way, because I couldn’t always act freely, and I couldn’t reveal who I really was, but it was ok. Bearable. It was also partly my choice. I never felt the need to come out to other people apart from my family and closest friends, anyway. I could do that, because seamless and sporadic one night stands were the only thing I’ve ever done, even if I had to be very careful and sometimes it was very stressing. Sometimes I asked myself whether all that fuss was necessary. Why I couldn’t just go and kiss a boy and demand people to get over it, because it was my fucking life. But then I brushed the thought away and listened to my advisors, because in the end I have never felt a connection that went beyond the sex with somebody, because there was never a sentiment strong enough that was worth coming out for, that made me consider doing it,” he stops to breath in, then exhale slowly and steadily. “Until you.”

Harry snaps his eyes up, taking in the sight of a very flustered Louis in front of him. He gapes at him, and Louis can’t expect him to contain himself after dropping this bomb on him, after he thought he would come here and have to turn the page, come here to go back with his heart broken.

“Lou...” he hums, voice feeble, vision blurred.

“No, let me go on Harry,” he almost pleads, so Harry just nods and stays silent. “I need to tell you everything and take it off my chest, otherwise I will end up chickening out again, and that’s not what you deserve.”

Harry nods again.

“I instantly liked you the moment you started talking to me, with your voice squeaking in embarrassment,” he says, a faint smile on his lips, and Harry feels his cheeks becoming red, reminiscing that very first encounter and how awkward he was.

“I thought it was because you reminded me a bit of myself, and because I felt invested in your cause, because I felt sorry for your frustrations. But the more I talked to you, the more I felt like I wanted to know you, to spend time with you. That I really wanted to make you smile, that I hated when that frown clouded your face. Looking back it was so obvious what I was feeling for you. I think the moment that truly did it to me was when you started singing that song from Frozen, I couldn’t think of anything beside the fact that I wanted to shut you up snogging your stupid face off until the morning next,” says Louis with a smirk, even though his face is positively red.

“What?” asks Harry bewildered, feeling a flush climb his neck. “But you were always so odd! So hot and cold!” he can’t restrain himself from commenting, even if Louis asked him to let him explain.

“I know. I told you, I’m a coward after all. I’m so sorry Harry, I didn’t really know what I was doing. And I was scared of my feelings, because they were too strong, nothing that I had ever felt before. I know this is not an excuse. I wanted to make you happy, to do nice things for you, to have you around, always, and I started convincing myself that the fact that I wanted to kiss you wasn’t that important and it didn’t have to ruin the friendship we were building. That’s why I was always restraining myself, because the moment I was about to slip up I knew I had to try and catch myself before I did something wrong. I even had to ask Niall to stop me if he noticed I was about to push too far or act stupidly, and he did, even if both him and Barbara were judging me _so hard,_ and trying to put some sense into my brain. They really care about you, by the way. For how worried and angry they were I think they like you better than me by now.”

Harry snorts and crosses his arms on his chest. “That’s why he stopped us at the club.”

“Yeah,” he says gently, scratching his neck. “I really regret that night.”

“I really don’t,” replies Harry instantly, remembering the feeling of Louis’ hands on his body, of his breath on his throat, feeling again that sense of excitement at the base of his stomach. He’s been hurt, true, but he doesn’t regret anything.

Louis sighs at Harry’s stubborn expression, spinning on himself to look at him with an honest light in his eyes.

“I wasn’t fair and I didn’t act in a good way, though. I wasn’t respectful. Niall was so fucking angry the day after, gave me a proper lecture when I was done crying. I thought I’d ruined everything and I was so embarrassed to reach out for you, because I behaved like an asshole. That’s why I tried to play it down, to feign I was so drunk that I forgot about it all, so maybe you wouldn’t blame me too much and I could keep staying around you. That was so unfair of me, but I couldn’t have you hating me or walking away. I mean, I know you hated me anyway, but I was sort of avoiding confrontation, because I wasn’t ready to admit what I was feeling, and I was even less ready to be rejected.

I also kept feeling so guilty, because you’re so young and we play for the same club, but you’re in the academy, which makes the whole me liking you thing about a thousand times worse. And I thought I could keep it to myself, that you didn’t have to know, that I could get over it, so things would stay like they were. We went through such different lives, Harry. I was torturing myself with thoughts, with what ifs, trying not to fool myself into thinking that we could be something, not when I was so fucked up. Thinking that even if there was something on your part it wouldn’t be fair to drag someone in the mess I have to deal with. And I must have convinced myself that you were just attracted by my fame, by the things I represent, and you had just projected all sort of nice qualities onto me. And then I saw the pictures in your room and the jersey, so I started to wonder if it was only a crush on the favourite football player, if you just wanted to become like me, but at least I had to accept that you truly liked me. I mean, Barbara sort of hinted at that, but I was really oblivious. I was forcing myself to be oblivious more like. But I also thought that I could try and be all the nice things you associated me with, all the good things you told me you thought I was, so that I could be better for you, so that you would still like me even knowing me. That you would like me for real. And that you wouldn’t be ashamed of liking me.”

“How can you say this? How could I ever be ashamed of liking  _you._ And how could you not know how much I liked you? How much I wanted you? Even that night at the club, when I didn’t stop you, you must have known! And the other night I fucking kissed you! _I_ did it!”

“But that was hardly a kiss, Harry. And you had some drinks, and—but I think I kind of unconsciously realised when I saw your room with all those pictures still there, in the end. Even after those two rough weeks when we weren’t talking much and we were fighting and I knew you were angry, but then you still agreed to come with me and comfort me and...it stroke me that you never tried to use our friendship to your advantage, just because I’m me. And you liked me as a fan before, but you acted as the best friend I could ever ask for, you’ve always been honest and true to me, and when you were angry you just. Shut me down. You could have pretended, like I was doing, but you didn’t go that route just because it was me and you wanted to stay my friend. You never indulged me. You were angry, and that’s how I understood you truly cared, and that’s why I wanted to open a bit of my heart to you that time in the car.”

“I wasn’t angry. I was hurt,” admits Harry, avoiding the mention of days spent moping in bed.

“That’s even worse. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Harry. I know it doesn’t make things better, and I wish I weren’t so stupid. I’m sorry if I was inappropriate, I’m sorry I kissed you when you where drunk and I’m sorry I avoided you after. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t able to restrain myself from doing what I felt like doing just because in that moment I thought that liking you was a reason strong enough to kiss you,” his tone is exasperate, and he sags in his shoulders helpless, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

That’s when Harry realises if he doesn’t get to touch him he will go crazy, because his heart is racing and his hands quiver from the need to reach out, so he stands up and comes behind Louis, brushing his hips to make him twirl.

“It doesn’t matter that I wanted all those things, then?” he asks and Louis is a bit taken aback, dumbfounded from suddenly finding himself in Harry’s space, only centimetres apart from his face. "All those things and even more?" he adds.  

“I think it doesn’t, because it was the wrong way to do them,” answers Louis valiantly, even if the words come out in a stutter and Harry can see that his eyes are shamelessly staring at his lips.

“But you said you like me,” objects Harry, matter-of-factly, and dares twitching his mouth into a smile.

Louis looks up and takes a steady breath, swiping his tongue on his own lips.

“I love you, I think there’s a substantial difference.”

Louis closes his eyes, ready to deal with Harry’s reaction. But he’s happy he finally told him, it doesn’t matter if he sounds like a fool, if Harry can’t accept it. His words echo in Harry’s brain, and he’s not completely sure he’s not just imagining it all.

“You love _me,”_ he repeats, baffled.

“I very much do,” confirms Louis.

Louis loves him. He said that. He just did.

“That’s quite the opposite of a problem, if you ask me.”

He kept thinking of how it would be, having Louis to tell him just these words, because Harry has always been a master at imagining unlikely scenarios, since he was very small. This one became reality, though, and the feeling of out-bursting happiness doesn’t quite compare to anything he could think of.

Louis snorts and hides his face in Harry’s chest, still too tentative for Harry’s liking.

“You know that was totally a kiss, by the way?” Harry says teasingly, getting even closer to Louis and taking his thin waist in his big hands, pressing Louis’ flush body against his own.

“It— wasn’t,” says Louis obstinately. “Are you going to do anything about it?” he asks daringly, after one moment of hesitation.

“About what?” asks Harry, feigning confusion, tapping one finger on his chin. He's entitled to play it hard to get for a bit. Even if it doesn't last much.

Louis stays silent, but then looks up smugly.

“The kiss.”

Harry is the one to snort this time, and he finally takes Louis’ face in his hands, smiling amusedly at him to savour the moment, before kissing him gently. His hands run through Louis’ hair, ruffling them up even more, then they slowly slide again on his hips, while his mouth keeps persevering on Louis’ lips, until he caves and melts in the kiss. Only then he parts from him, taking again Louis’ face in his hands and aligning their noses, so he can directly look at him in his eyes.

“Better?” he asks with a teasing smile, which is met with Louis’ flashing one in return.

“Yes.”

Harry faintly breathes out on Louis’ lips. “See, I’m not even drunk. Not in the slightest. Do you understand now Lou?” he asks, voice a bit worried, letting go of his face only to take Louis’ hands in his own. “Do you?”

“I think—yeah. I think I do,” mumbles Louis softly.

“What do you understand?” pushes Harry for an answer.

“That maybe you like me too.”

Sometimes Louis can be a bit slow on the uptake. He’s watching him with his blue eyes that are a bit incredulous, and Harry wonders how, of all the things, it looked impossible to Louis that Harry could be there in front of him, in his arms, looking expectantly, radiating a shared and true happiness.

“That I definitely _love_ you too,” he corrects him. “And that I have, for a long time.”

Louis stares at their tangled hands and doesn’t acknowledge Harry’s words for some more moments. But he’s smiling, sheepishly, and that reassures Harry a bit.

“Do you really want to do this?” he asks in the end, voice coy.

“I think I’ve been pretty clear.”

Louis nods, but it looks like there’s still something that afflicts him, so Harry comfortingly brushes the skin under his shirt to spur him to talk.

“You know I can’t come out yet,” he blurts out, a bit distressed. Harry knows. He figured, at least. And he knows he wants to be with Louis, and that they can go far one step at time. It doesn’t matter how small the steps are.

“I can wait. I’ll always wait for you.”

Louis disentangles his hands from Harry’s hold and then nods, and Harry sees one thick tear rolling down his cheek. He promptly wipes it away with his thumb, looking at Louis’ moist eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he pleads.

Louis nods and doesn’t say anything, he wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and kisses him with ardour, while Harry pushes him back until they bump into the table. He picks Louis up and makes him sit on the surface, so their mouths are at the same level. Louis hooks his legs around Harry’s waist, to keep him closer, their bodies flush against each other, their chests lined up, so that Harry can feel Louis’ heart thumping. Louis interrupts the kiss only to cling harder to Harry’s back and rest his head in the crook of Harry’s neck.

“I really want to do this, you know,” whispers Louis on his skin, and Harry feels a shiver run along his spine. He lifts his head up, locking his blue eyes with Harry’s, and Harry tightens up his grip on Louis’ hips, pressing him against his chest, because every moment in which he can’t keep it close, closer than ever, to him, feels like a wasted moment.

"Harry?" asks Louis uncertain and questioning, lifting his chin up when Harry doesn’t say anything. Harry gives him a lopsided smile and takes a hold of his hand, again, dragging him through the room, along the infinite hallways of Louis’ own house that he knows so well it starts to feel like home. He giggles when Louis grips at his wrist and stops him to kiss him, and their mouths clash in a hurry, and Harry can’t keep his hands away from Louis’ curves, and they climb the stairs, faces glued to each other’s, at the risk of stumbling down. But they don’t really care.

They only stop to catch their breaths and this time is Louis the one to lead him, straight to his bedroom, without interrupting the touches, the rushes, his skin, Harry’s hands, their mouths. They twirl and he pushes Harry on the bed, he crawls over him and he starts to kiss him more thoroughly, shoving his hands through his curls, and Harry kisses back, once, twice, just to make sure, while he caresses his sides all the same and starts to undress him, slowly, carefully.

Harry slides further up on the bed, taking with him Louis, who has already discarded his t-shirt on the ground and is doing the same with Harry's. He goes down on Harry’s body, breathing steadily on his skin, touching cautiously, delicately, as if treating Harry with anything but all the care of this world was just plainly inconceivable.

Harry lingers wth his fingers on Louis’ sides, tracing the line where his pants fall short on his hips, only to squeeze them.

“Lou,” he husks out, voice raspy, as he plays with the hem of his pants. He doesn’t want to stop this, but he needs to make something clear. Louis doesn’t get the drift though, because he keeps leaving a trace of hot and damp kisses along his chest.

“Louis,” says Harry, suddenly concerned, even if it takes a big effort. “Wait, Lou,” he puts a hand on his naked shoulder and forces him to look up. He needs Louis to understand he wants this, he wants him. “What you said before...You know that it’s because of you? Not because you’re Louis Tomlinson, or because you’re here, or because I want to—“

“Shut up. I love you,” cuts him off Louis, stressing every word, as he frees Harry of his jeans only to pull him closer again and kiss him desperately until they both run out of breath.

“Me, too,” replies Harry in a pant, smiling happily against Louis’ teeth.

-

When Louis wakes up he finds a small note on the pillow where Harry’s head should be instead. He rubs his blurred eyes with a nasty vibe in his guts, and his stomach cringes in anticipation. A note. He opens it, and widens his eyes at Harry’s curly handwriting.

_Didn’t want to wake you, breakfast’s in the kitchen. H._

Louis feels his mouth suddenly dry up, and also his cheeks becoming red at the memory of what a dick he had been to Harry the morning before.

Harry told him they’re not kids, they should deal with things like adults, even if Louis said that he still feels like a kid sometimes. So what does this mean? Is this some sort of revenge? Some sort of five-year-old stunt?

But he can’t possibly be. He trusts Harry. He knows he loves him, he knows he’s genuine when he says he does.

He gets out of bed and puts on a pair of trackies, before slowly coming down the stairs. A reassuring smell of baking guides him to the kitchen, where Harry, clad in one of Louis’ Manchester United shirts (that he must have looked for thoroughly, because Louis doesn’t keep them around, and the thought makes him feel weak because—yeah, Harry is _his)_ is pulling something out of the oven.

“I wanted to bake you some chocolate muffins for breakfast,” he says, when he looks up and spots Louis bashfully creeping from the door, before taking a piece from one muffin and carefully blowing on it.

“I almost burned them, though. Luckily I didn’t go for some cinnamon rolls or I would have probably destroyed your kitchen or something. I think they’re still edible, though,” he says with a sorry frown, and then to prove it to Louis he puts the tiny piece of muffin in his mouth, widening his eyes because it must be too hot.

“I’m sure,” says Louis, smirking amusedly at Harry’s funny face. “What did I do to deserve you?” he teases, but he actually means it in the best way.

“Hey! At least I tried!”

Louis smiles and gets close to him, going past the kitchen counter. He wraps his arms around Harry’s middle and leans in to peck at his lips.

“I taste of burnt muffin,” warns him Harry, and Louis just snorts and kisses him deeply, thinking of how brilliant would be waking up like this every day, with Harry’s taste, mixed with chocolate, albeit burnt, on his lips.

-

Old Trafford is one of the biggest and most important stadiums in the world. Entering it from the tunnel that leads to the pitch is undoubtedly not the same as doing it from the turnstiles, after showing his season ticket to a steward. It’s not the same than entering it from a privileged entrance with Barbara, because Louis has reserved him the best seat in the stadium to watch the matches, to watch him play. Entering the stadium from the tunnel, with a fluorescent sport bib in one hand, ready to be worn, with his headphones on, so that everything seems and looks more majestic, like in a movie (no, he’s not ashamed at all), with shaky and uncertain steps because of how excited, how happy, and also how scared he is, it’s _definitely_ not the same.

Harry takes a look around, feeling his legs tremble as he takes in the magnificence of the building, of the stands that are about to be occupied by thousands of supporters, all united by the same faith in this football club. He suddenly feels crushed by the weight of this new responsibility, something he has never felt while he was still playing for the under-21 team, when he had the calming awareness that he was entitled to make mistakes, to fall, to fuck up, because it was all for a greater purpose, because he still needed to grow up and learn. Now, though, his only option is to do well, and he’s not sure he can.

His legs are really fucking trembling.

Louis discretely comes behind him, tentatively, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“Am I dreaming?” asks Harry, and then turns to look at Louis with a scrunched grimace plastered on his face. Actually, looking at Louis immediately makes him feel better, and his warm and steady presence next to him gives him a bit more confidence.

Louis giggles, and subtly puts a hand on his waist, pressing his fingers on his flesh. “How are you feeling then?”

As if he has swallowed up the whole stadium, supporters included, and they were all doing the wave. That’s how he’s feeling. And it’s not very nice.

Louis keeps smiling at him, encouraging and confident, as if everything it’s going to go well, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Actually, it probably is. For him, at least. Louis is so used to this that he can’t fully grasp how big this is to Harry. Sure, he’s been in the same situation, years ago, but he was younger than Harry, he was barely seventeen, and he was already an acknowledged talent. And, most importantly, his first match wasn’t a Champions League semi-finals. What if he fucks up and he gets the whole team kicked out from the competition?

He feels all the pressure, all his worst insecurities almost squashing him. It’s unreal, it’s a sudden fear, it feels like it’s not him standing on that football turf. He dumbly starts to hope Mourinho doesn’t put him on the pitch, because the fear of fucking up is now almost overcoming the longing wish to step on that field and do what he’s capable of doing, do what he’s been hard-working for since he was so small. He tries to push away this petty thought.

He shouldn’t feel inadequate only because everything feels so _big_ and different, the benches, the massive Manchester United logo at the entrance, the billboards by the touchline, the mark in the middle of the field, the stands, everything is massive. And he knows that it’s not like Old Trafford falls outside the standard size of a football pitch, that is always the same. Maybe it’s just him who became smaller, and everything feels disproportionate, ten, one hundred times bigger.

“It’s amazing. Of course,” he says, not totally convinced, not looking directly at Louis. “Fuck, I’m going to be sick. Oh God,” he says, covering his face with his hands. What is he supposed to do? He just wants to run away.

Louis giggles again, but it’s a laugh full of fondness and comprehension. He puts his other hand on the small of Harry’s back and looks at him with tenderness, then he hugs him tight.

“It’s perfectly normal,” he says, brushing his thumbs on Harry’s skin. “Harry. Look at me baby,” he pleads, and when Harry looks up at him he’s overwhelmed by the blue in Louis’ eyes that he just stops thinking for a second.

“Yeah,” he whispers, lingering in the contact, even if they can’t, not like this, where everybody could spot them.

“Don’t be scared, _Pup._ If you’re here it’s because you can do what you must do.”

“No, Lou, you don’t understand,” he stutters, taking a steady breath. “This is the Champions League, this is the fucking Champions League and I’m here instead of being sitting with Barbara on the stands and it’s all fucked up and—“

Louis takes his face in his hands, and scrunches up his nose when he notices that Harry is shaking.

“No, Harry. No,” he whispers, aligning their noses. “When the substitution board will show your jersey number and you’ll step on the field you’ll astonish everyone, yourself included. But not me, because I already know how amazing you are,” he tells him, and Harry feels his heart racing.

Louis looks around quickly, then takes the sport bib from Harry’s hands and puts it above their heads to cover the soft, lingering and stolen kiss he places on Harry’s lips.

-

“Warm up.”

Mourinho’s words are dry and sharp. Harry quickly takes off his sweatshirt in which he was wrapped, to keep his body warm while sitting on the bench. He puts on the sport bib and stands up, starting his exercises along the touchline, giving quick glances at the players on the pitch and at the score board, that also tells in which minute of the match they’re in. There are only twenty-five minutes left.

The board of course shows the score, too, so every time he looks up, that massive 1-1 threatens him, putting him under a lot more pressure than necessary. If it ends like this, Manchester United won’t reach the semi-finals, because they lost the first leg to Lyon. They need to win, and they only need a goal to do just so.

The seconds pass, incredibly slowly. The team on the pitch is tired, stuck in a pernicious game. Louis’ goal, at the start of the second half, that gave them some hope, had been equalised in the span of ten minutes, and the opponents look like they know what they’re doing and are now playing definitely better than them.

While he jogs by the touchline, Harry meets Zayn’s eyes and gives him an encouraging smile. Zayn was put in at the start of the second half, and still looks quite nervous, even if this is already his second match with the first team.

There are twenty-three minutes left. And then stoppage time. There are a lot of things you can do in twenty-three minutes plus stoppage time. But those twenty-three minutes are already twenty-two when Harry finishes his warming-up. Twenty-one, when he approaches the assistant referee, ready to be subbed in. Twenty, when finally the speaker announces that he’s entering the pitch, and the tensed supporters clap cautiously and a bit reluctant.

Harry takes his position, just like Mourinho told him to, and he gestures to Louis, who gets close and grips his waist with one hand, rubbing his nose with the other one. “Lou, I’m on the half-way line, you and Zayn take the front.”

Louis nods sharply and doesn’t say anything, he gives him a powerful pat on the shoulder and then motions Zayn to swap positions.

Harry is fresh and responsive, fuelled by the tense waiting on the bench, by the need to do well, but it’s difficult to integrate himself in the team, because his moves are neutralised by his own teammates, who are too tired to keep up with his passes, so they more than often end up losing possession of the ball. Harry could destroy the world, but even with all the enthusiasm he feels, he knows that his task is to build the game, to push his team forward, even if the slowness of the midfield makes them lose balance, and they end up giving the other team a lot of free kicks in the attempt to catch up.

There’s not much time left, and Harry keeps thinking they need some kind of miracle to pass. Then suddenly, out of the blue, Zayn fetches a ball in their box and directly passes it to Harry.

Harry is startled for one moment, then he wriggles out easily from the pressing of one defender and he twirls on himself, but he doesn’t find anybody to pass the ball to, half of his team still in their box after the free kick, still aligned in the defensive scheme. He needs to take a decision in the span of one second, so to take time he starts to run along the touchline, rushing like he never has, because the field in front of him turns into a meadow, and running is the only thing he can do, running and hoping somebody from his team will get the drift, will notice and follow him. He leaves behind all the opponent team’s defenders and he reaches the box, and it’s just him and the goalkeeper now, who looks at him with a challenging glare. The goalie surprisingly gets out of the box and comes towards him, aiming at his legs, in a desperate attempt to save the ball. Harry knows he’s lost the moment. If he shoots now, he would straight hit the goalkeeper, if he waits, the goalkeeper would steal the ball, or at best he would tackle him and he would get a free kick. Not enough. If he tries to jump over him to reach the goal mouth he could risk to miss the net.

He reasons in the fraction of a nanosecond, and before the goalkeeper can cling at his shins, with a back-heel pass he sends the ball behind him, certain that Louis is there for him, ready to help him. Harry falls to the ground when the goalkeeper tackles him, but he looks up in time to see the ball ending up in the back on the net, before Louis throws himself on top of him, hugging him very tight and hiding his face in Harry’s hair, leaving a secret kiss on his cheekbone.

“I knew it,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, before the whole team is piled up on them, celebrating the move that brings them to the semi-finals.

-

  
They didn’t win the Champions League, but they still had a successful season, and Harry is proud of being part, even with a small role, of something so big.

He smoothes the fabric of his new white button-down, that fits him as a glove. He bought it with Louis, when they went shopping together for their outfits for the gala dinner for the end of the football season, last week.

Louis is getting dressed on the other side of the room, across the bed, still unmade, and Harry loses himself in watching every single one of his studied and measured movements. A giggle involuntarily escapes from his mouth, and that makes Louis look up wonderingly.

“What?” he asks with a smile.

Harry rolls onto the bed, risking to wrinkle his expensive new shirt.

“I was thinking,” he says, standing up when he reaches the other side, “I had a conversation with Zayn and Liam ages ago about this dinner,” he says, smiling as he gets closer to Louis with the purpose to tie his tie. He’s very proud of his tying skills (pun not intended) and he wants to show off, even if Louis was the one to teach him.

“And they told me I couldn’t be their guest because I would end up being yours,” he adds, a smirk twitching his lips.

“Well, they foreshadowed it,” says Louis, placing a kiss on his mouth as a thank you for the tie knot. “Perfect,” he comments, tightening the tie to his neck. "Thank you, love."

“Well, it’s not like we can actually act like each other’s date,” says Harry, clouding a bit. He always promises himself he won’t make Louis feel bad for having to hide their relationship, but sometimes, in circumstances like this, he would just like to do normal things with his boyfriend, attend an event together, step out of the same car and hold hands, be papped by the club photographer, find the picture on the website of the team captioned in a true way. Yeah, he’s always liked to dream, after all. Sometimes it’s just harder to accept the reality.

“We can make up for it now,” counters Louis, trapping him in his arms and starting to work with his mouth on Harry’s neck. The bruise will take days to fade.

-

“I want that too, you know it,” says Louis abruptly when they’re in the car that is taking them to the restaurant where the event takes place.

Harry looks at him, from where he’s nestled up in his chest, a silent question written on his face. What?

“To do this in the light of the day. You know it. But you also knew we had to wait,” says Louis in frustration, taking Harry’s hand and then dropping it. Harry steadies himself upright, looking at Louis’ sad face. He hopes Louis knows he doesn’t blame him at all. He's never blamed him for his choices.

“Lou, I’m not backtracking. It’s just. Sometimes I wish it was easier,” he admits.

“I know,” sighs Louis, and then doesn’t add anything, so Harry considers the conversation done. He stays silent and pensive for the rest of the journey, though, and harry doesn't ask.

They finally reach the place, and the driver leaves them in the parking lot, telling them that he will be here to pick them up at the end of the dinner.

Harry thanks him and goes to climb out of the car, but Louis stops him before he can do just so.

“Wait,” he says, and then gets out and goes round the car to reach for Harry’s door. He opens it, then offers Harry his arm.

“Babe what are you doing?” asks Harry bewildered, looking around suspiciously before hooking his arm with Louis’.

“The boyfriend,” he says simply, and Harry feels his heart thump with love and fear, because saying it out loud, outside of the privacy of Louis’ house, of Harry’s room where Louis has to sneak in sometimes, feels risky and almost impudent, and so does walking like this, freely, so close to each other that if somebody spots them there will be a lot of questioning going on.

“Oi, get a room!” they hear a voice yell, as they walk gingerly on the path that leads to the restaurant, and Harry freezes, and feels Louis stiffen abruptly. They spin around and see just Niall and Barbara, walking quickly to catch up with them.

“Fuck off,” laughs Louis, hitting Niall in the shoulder as they join them, while Harry brushes past them to hug Barbara.

“I’m so happy for you both,” she whispers in his ear, and Harry can’t do anything but beam at her, because, yeah. He is, too.

-

They’re sitting at the same table with Mourinho and his wife, Nevan and his wife, and Niall and Barbara, and Harry feels a bit misplaced, and he wonders why anyone isn’t questioning this seating arrangements, but. He’s sitting next to his boyfriend, so he won’t be the one to complain.

The team knows about them, but they’re the only ones, so they still need to act quite inconspicuously. That doesn’t stop Louis from hooking his leg around Harry’s ankle or keep a steady hand on his thigh, though.

In the middle of the dinner Louis is hijacked by a journalist, who is going around together with a camera-man to interview the footballers for the channel of the club. Louis stands up and follows them, a couple of steps away, where Harry can still hear.

“Here we have Louis Tomlinson, the rumoured next captain of the team. How do you feel about the season that just ended?” she asks, shoving the microphone in Louis’ face.

Louis frowns and then smiles, taking it in his hands.

“I think we achieved great results, and I’m proud of this club. I’m happy we’re managing to build a solid team and integrate young and talented players,” he declares, turning a bit to look proudly at Harry, who feels his stomach flutter with fondness.

“Do you think they will be our future?” asks the woman.

“Our present, our future,” says Louis beaming happily at the camera.

“Do you think the future’s bright?”

Harry catches Louis eyes and smiles encouragingly at him, giving him the thumbs up.

“I’m sure it is.”

-

When Harry landed in Milan for the first time, holding his one-way ticket, and stepped out of the plane to _stay_ , he didn’t think that only two months later he would already be back in Manchester.

Yet there he is, in Old Trafford, that football pitch that he knows so, so well. That pitch that gave him so many memories, that consigned him to the real football, that hosted his debut. That turf that feels and smells so familiar, the stands, coloured in red and gold, that once felt like a hug, that well-known chant in his head and in his throat, that goes straight to his heart every time, even if it’s not meant for him anymore.

When he landed in Milan, he promised to himself he would let time bury all the painful memories that Manchester gave him. And all the happy memories, too, because the happy memories are still hopelessly tied to the painful ones, and Harry can’t let the sadness and the grudge of the most bitter and cold of the goodbyes ruin his football dreams, that have always come first.

That was before Louis, though. And now that he’s gone from his life, football is back to being the most important thing.

They haven’t met yet. It seems impossible that he still hasn’t seen him after two days that they’ve been in Manchester. They even train at the Trafford Training Centre, because Manchester United is hosting them for the match. It looks like fate really meant it, when he took them away from each other, but Harry knows that the moment will come, and if it’s not during a practice session in the training centre it will be in the tunnel, just before the start of the match, or on the pitch, when they’ll face each other. He never imagined he would end up thinking something like this.

When Harry landed in Milan, he thought that he would never go back again to Manchester. That that story was over, done, _fini_ , and if Louis was okay with that so would be Harry. If it was so easy for Louis, to forget about everything, maybe it was better things went this way, even if in the end it was always Harry the one to suffer.

He truly doesn’t want Manchester to mean anything for him anymore, even if thinking this way feels like a stab in his heart. But if he does well in the Italian Serie A with Inter Milan, where he now plays on a temporary loan from Manchester United, they will pay the fee for a permanent transfer at the end of the season, and that’s the only thing he wants right now.

Okay, it’s not true. But with some effort he will get over it, he will be okay again. Because his dreams and ambitions are as important as Louis’, and no, Louis, evidently they can’t come true in Manchester. Or not yet.

Even if they eventually got their shit together, after dancing around each other for so long, and Harry thought he’d proven Louis how much he loves him, Louis, and Harry knows and understands that, wasn’t ready to let him go, to let him do his things. Because while Harry was so used to that feeling of independence that tells you to go, to learn to fly, even if you don’t know what the future stored for you, and it doesn’t matter what you leave behind, Louis was different. Louis hates giving away the stability, the certainty that when everything is finally fine it will stay like that forever.

But fate is petty and mean, and Harry can’t control it. That’s why the Champions League draw saw Manchester United and Inter Milan, Harry’s new team, in the same group stage, along with Dinamo Kiev and Anderlecht. And that’s also why after only two months, Harry found himself, with his whole new team, on a plane headed to Manchester.

He doesn’t know how Old Trafford, the supporters, will react to his presence on the field. They will boo him, probably. Honestly, he doesn’t care that much, when there’s something else that matters more. Because two months, he figured, are not enough to delete memories that leave such a mark on your life, people who you shared your space, your best moments, your thoughts, your _deepest love_ with. Especially if among these people there is one Louis Tomlinson.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” says nervously Nevan, who’s sitting next to him on the plane, when they land in Manchester’s airport. Just like Harry, he followed Mourinho to Inter Milan from Manchester United, when the coach decided to go back to manage the Italian club and asked some of his players to transfer and keep playing for him.

Nevan had been Manchester’s captain for seven years, but he wanted to try a new adventure, and now he’s dealing with a forced come back, different from Harry’s, but just as painful.

To Harry, coming back feels like admitting that in that goodbye there were still too many things unsaid. Recognising those places, that look different to him, even if everything is exactly the same, like always, the stadium, the practice centre, the hallway that from the entrance leads to the gym, the fenced grounds outside, the offices, even passing by those closed door and feeling that even if Inter Milan is his family now, and it feels like it, makes him think that he still owes something to Manchester, to this place, and he’s not sure it’s only a last goodbye of closure, to be able to face the team as an enemy.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” he manages, sagging disconsolate into his seat. He’s not ready.

-

The flat screen hung on a wall in the guests locker room at Old Trafford is showing a clip from Sky Sports of the arrival of Manchester United’s coach in the stadium. Harry stops to stare at it while he’s wearing his sweatshirt over his match shirt when he spots Louis getting off the bus and dashing inside the building, lowering his sunglasses on two tired and circled eyes and ignoring the journalists who were shoving the microphones in his face, trying to get a statement from him.

He feels a hand grabbing his shoulder and when he turns around he spots Mateo, his teammate, staring at him with a questioning glare and lips pursed together. Harry is happy to have at least someone who is kind of close to him and who knows the situation, because he tells everything to Mateo, but he answers with a shrug at his silent question, as to say he doesn’t need to worry, it’s fine.

Mateo is the first friend he made when he moved to Milan, apart from Nevan, but he already knew him from Manchester United so it doesn’t really count. Mateo helped him with the language, he showed him around, he brought him to the best places in the town and he tried to make him feel less lonely. He’s a good guy, and a good friend. He’s not Louis, though. Because Harry is starting to realise no one could ever be what Louis has been to him.

And he thinks that maybe not everything is okay, that he’s not strong enough for this, he’s not ready to see him, to act like they’ve been nothing when they’ve had everything.

Mateo encompasses him into a hug when he sees that Harry’s eyes are moist and red and he’s about to cry, and gives him the chance to hide his weakness into the crook of his neck.

“I know it must be hard for you, Harry. What if you try and talk to him?” he whispers in his ear. “It can’t be all lost.”

“There wouldn’t be—no. No, no, it’s fine. It really is,” he lies, even if he’s shit at lying and everybody can read him like an open book. But he can’t let this situation destabilise him, not when the only thing that matters now is playing. Play and win the match, and there’s no room for tears and pain, he needs to keep it all inside.

He finally spots him, Louis, in the flesh, in the tunnel that leads to the pitch, in between Niall and Hernandez, jumping on his feet to warm up (and to get rid of the nervousness. Harry _knows_ it’s his thing, he always does it). Harry walks and his eyes persistently search for Louis’, but the other boy seems to be ignoring him on purpose, while all of his ex-teammates come to him and hug him affectionately. Zayn engulfs his body, and this hug aches more than the others as both smile sadly into each other’s neck.

“It will be so fucking hard playing against you Haz,” whispers Zayn in his ear. Harry nods, sighing heavily. It’s all too much for him. He needs to do well for his team, which is like family now, but he needs to go against his best mates and the team he’s supported his whole life. He needs to play against Louis, to hope he does poorly, when he’s been his number one fan since forever, despite all of that they’ve gone through.

But he also needs to do his best, to fight, even if he’s spent his time in Manchester with Zayn and Liam, like the old days, even if he’s met with Barbara and Niall, like those months haven’t passed at all. He needs to put the love aside, to remember that his priorities are now different, that he must put his new team, his _career_ , before everything else, and he’s always thought he was good at this, he’s thought of this when he left Manchester to pursue his dreams, because of _football,_ because football came before everything else. He’s not sure of this anymore, not when he’s forced to look at Louis and remember all the things they had.

Niall comes close to him, too, and grabs his shoulder, tight, without showing any sign of resentment. Harry is happy that at least someone doesn’t blame him for what he’s done, even if Niall is friends with Louis and surely even if he doesn’t show it must side with Louis on this whole story.

“You’re doing great things Haz, but we miss you so much. Barbara always talks about you,” he smiles, with a proud edge in his eyes.

“And what about him?” asks Harry, his voice a tremble. Niall twitches his mouth, grimacing in excuse and then comes closer and hugs him in comfort.

Louis is still fidgeting and looking around nervously, avoiding with mastery Harry’s eyes, while he fixes the captain’s armband, that he’s inherited from Nevan, on his bicep. There’s a moment when Harry’s almost sure he was casting him a look, but when he looks up Louis is back to feigning Harry is not even there. Instead he goes to Nevan with a challenging attitude and greets him cheerfully and unnecessarily loudly. Harry sees him standing on his tippy-toes to reach and hug the former Manchester captain and his stomach cringes hard, and hurts, when he sees him turn to joke with Mateo on who’s going to score first.

And Harry crumbles inside, because he can’t. Because one thing is not seeing him, not having the constant reminder in front of his eyes, but another is feeling Louis’ presence around and not being able to touch, to reach out, to hide into his arms.

“Lou,” he whispers, with his heart in his throat. He tries to get closer, even if he wouldn’t know how to approach him, what to tell him, but the referee urges them to enter the pitch, and he loses his moment, once again.

-

_“Look at this!” snorts Louis, wielding a copy of The Guardian with an exasperated face._

_It’s lunchtime, but they just had breakfast. The mugs are hanging in the balance on the handle of the sofa and Louis’ cereal bowl is masterfully stuck between two seats, at the risk of falling to the ground and making a lake of chocolate milk on the wooden floor. Louis will never take that to the kitchen, though, because that would mean leaving the warmth and comfort of the couch and he can’t do that on a Monday, because Monday it’s the day after the match and it’s supposed to be spent lazing on a couch._

_Every Monday he kisses Harry good morning and steps out of bed first, muttering unintelligible words. He plops down on the couch, turning on the flat screen on the sport news he won’t watch, and starts reading the sport columns of the newspaper with the report of the match, commenting every news in a loud voice._

_Then Harry comes into the room, setting the breakfast tray on the coffee table and taking possession of the remote, because “I know we’re footballers, but why can’t we watch, like, a cooking show for once?” surrendering after a few seconds to Louis’ stern glare, because “I don’t take orders from someone who only got an ‘acceptable display of football’ mention from The Mirror”_

_Mondays were nice if they won on Sunday, because you felt all satisfied and relaxed. Harry thought Mondays were nice even when they lost, because spending the whole day cuddling in bed with Louis, making love and doing nothing made him feel satisfied and relaxed too._

_This morning Harry doesn’t feel relaxed, though. He feels like he’s swallowed a bunch of rocks and now they’re all in his stomach._

_“I’ll spare you the read, It says that Mourinho wants to bring you with him to Inter Milan and they made a 20 million pounds bid. The league is definitely almost over, seeing how they start making up shit just because they don’t know what to write,” he rolls his eyes._

_Harry nods hurriedly, turning away to avoid Louis’ angry look, feigning interest for the news on the screen when he feels his cheeks and his ears turn red._

_Louis doesn’t miss his embarrassment, though. He squints his eyes scanning him in confusion and then breaks the silence._

_“It’s bullshit, right?” he says, with a coldness in his smile Harry doesn’t recognise._

_-_

Harry thought he would have spent his last months in Manchester with Louis before moving to Milan. He thought they would have gone on holiday, just the two of them, somewhere private and far away from the spotlight, because nobody knew about them, yet. They could have gone to some sea place, somewhere warm, rent a small house in a nice area and spend some quiet weeks together, before Harry had to leave. Then when the football season started Harry would jump on the first jet to Manchester at the end of every match, even if it was only for one day, just to see Louis, or Louis could come to Milan sometimes, and they could explore together or just spend their day off in bed, and they would spend the whole week waiting for that moment.

It wasn’t thrilling, and it wasn’t the best option ever. It’s not like they wouldn’t have missed each other or that distance was easy to keep the relationship going, but what could Harry do? He really didn’t have many alternatives, not after Johnson, the new Manchester United coach, made clear that Harry wasn’t part of his project and if he wanted to stay he would have to get used to sit on the bench and fight hard to even get the chance to play. How could Harry be okay with that? He needed to play, to grow up without this kind of pressure, to be trusted even if he made mistakes, because he still needed to shape himself as a footballer. That’s when Mourinho came to his aid, asking him if he wanted to move to Inter Milan with him, and the club assured him he would get his space and they would give him time because they were trying to build a team of young promises. It was probably a bit selfish of him, but Louis had been selfish, as well. He didn’t even try to understand, to try and make it work, he just got angry, he told Harry that he couldn’t believe he didn’t talk to him about this, he was planning on leaving him, he gave him the coldest and most disappointed stare Harry has ever received. And Harry knows he has betrayed him, and he feels bad, because he knows how much Louis is reluctant to give his trust to people, and he sees that he has kind of destroyed it for himself. But he didn’t exactly try to stop him, when he got on that one way flight to Milan. He didn’t follow him to the airport, he didn’t ask him to stay, to do it for him. He just yelled at him, saying that if it was so easy for Harry he would make it easier by asking him to disappear, to go away, to leave him alone, when Harry needed his advice and his support the most. As if it wasn’t hard enough, having to leave Manchester, having to leave Louis, the most important and steady presence in his life.

-

Louis couldn’t believe Harry didn’t talk to him about the possibility to move from Manchester United to another team. To another _country._ Hell, he didn’t even think Harry had ever thought about the possibility to go away, how could he? He thought Harry was happy in Manchester, now that he had made it to the first team, that him and Louis got their shit together. Louis thought it was only the start, that there were only better things waiting for them.

It looks like he was wrong, though. He thought it could work, he thought he finally could be happy, but apparently Harry had different ideas. Maybe he didn’t care anymore, or maybe he never cared at all.

He didn’t want to question Harry’s feelings, but he’s never been able to keep his paranoia at bay, and seeing him walk away so easily made him think that all the things Harry told him maybe weren’t the truth, if it was so easy for him to fathom the thought of living in two different countries, of barely seeing each other.

When he went back to yell at Mourinho in his office, he couldn’t understand his explanation, as well, and it was easier to put some blame on him, too, so it would hurt less.

“You’re taking him away from me and you’re leaving me here alone, without my boyfriend and without the coach who made me become who I am today,” he burst out isterically, on the verge of tears.

“You’re pretty insecure for being one of the greatest footballers in business,” told him the coach, sharply. He always knows how to hit close to home.

"Fuck you," shouts Louis angrily, and he’s incredibly close to punching him.

“You know he’s good. You know he needs to play to develop his skills and that asshole of Johnson won’t recognise how good he could be for this team,” continues Mourinho reproachingly.

“It’s not a good reason to offer him something like you did and not talk to me!”

“Listen, I get that you’re angry and—“

“You don’t! You don’t get what it means to finally think you’ve got someone you love and you can trust and then they leave you like this,” chokes Louis, hitting the desk with a fist.

“He’s not leaving you, Louis. You are leaving him, if anything,” accuses the manager, eyebrows pulled together.

“I’m not—“

“You can’t leave Manchester. You’re their flag, and their strength. You’re the light of this team, you’re getting the captain armband. You’re a Manchester United soldier, until the end. If there’s something I’m sure of, it’s this. And you need this shirt, you need it like you need oxygen. But Harry is different from you. He’s still so young, and I can’t let him lose himself. You should support him, because he’s going to become great, but he needs a guide, and he can’t have it here. I won’t let him burn and succumb under Johnson, because he’s not as strong as you are. And I’m not taking him away from you, by the way, I’m borrowing him,” says Mourinho laconic.

“Borrow—It’s a loan?” exhales Louis disbelievingly, voice broken. “I thought—He didn’t tell me.”

“He didn’t tell or you didn’t let him tell you? Or you attacked him without listening to his reasons, in the same way you’re attacking me now?”fires back Mourinho angrily. “If you truly love him, you’ll let him come with me for a year. You’ll let me take care of him. And then I’ll return him, grown up and sure of his capacities.”

Louis looks at him with flames in his eyes, because it should be _him_ the one to take care of Harry, like he has always done until this moment, like he’s done in that awful period of time when he was recovering from his injury and nothing seemed to be good, apart from them. But the way in which Mourinho so easily accuses him, like he’s not a valid enough reason for Harry to fight for a spot in this team, the way Harry is so easily going to leave, even if it’s only for one year, make him waver with uncertainty, eyes welled up with tears. _If you truly love him._ Fuck off.

Maybe it should go this way.

Setting someone free if you truly love them it’s not something he’s ever thought about. He thought he would stick and fight for them, if he ever found that someone. Now that he’s done it, he thinks maybe he should take that step back. He’ll let Harry be him. He can love, and fight from afar, even if it hurts, and he can let Harry leave and live, if that’s what he needs, if that’s what he wants.

-

The match is hard, they’re suffering a lot and they’re losing. Harry still has his cheeks flushed and red from seeing Louis score that goal. For not being able to stop him in his run to the goal mouth, for that subtle and faint shove he gave him, that he knows wasn’t meant in a mean way but it does taste a bit like revenge.

He leaves him do his things, take his spaces, like he’s always done, in life and in football, but now he needs to realise he can’t do it anymore, because they’re playing for two rival teams. He’s still flustered from dazedly staring at the perfect trajectory of the ball, that goes to strike the back of the net. He still has his cheeks strained for that sense of burning at the base of his stomach, for that feeling of boundless pride that should be unmotivated, but he can’t help it. His face red, from biting hard at his lips, from restraining himself from jumping out at Louis, taking him in his arms, steal a kiss and hope nobody will notice. From remembering he can’t jump on his back for a piggy back ride to celebrate the goal anymore.

Harry looks at the Inter bench, Mourinho is of course standing, still, by the line that outlines his area, hands clasped behind his back and a cold smile on his face, nonetheless, because he must feel like Harry.

But Harry knows that it’s in moments like this that he needs to remind himself he can’t stop believing, because only one year and a half ago he was thinking that maybe he would never play football anymore, instead he came back, stronger than before, he’s playing the Champions League, he devours the pitch with his feet, he stacks up kilometres and goals, so he closes his eyes and runs, and tells to himself that he will keep fighting, because it’s in his blood, because he was born for this, and there isn’t something that makes him as happy as this, and he needs to show everyone, to prove them, to that fucking coach who thought he wasn’t good enough, to Louis, who wouldn’t understand why he needed to go, he needs to prove them that he’s here to play, to win, with his black and blue jersey damp with sweat that feels like his second skin, with his fierce and hungry eyes. So he intercepts the ball, stubborn, on the goalie restart, he shifts it on his left foot, he starts to run like his life depends on it, the touchline it’s his, his and nobody else’s, and he almost can’t see anything, he just runs and he knows he’s got this, he runs and forgets about all the months when he couldn’t play because his knee had crumbled, when it seemed like he would never recover, when he met Louis, when he started working for what he wanted, and what he wanted was _this,_ and he needed to remind himself about it when he was running and he knew that he was bound to do something good, that there was always someone expecting something good from him. But someone will always be against him, someone doesn’t plan good things for him, _not again,_ he thinks, when he feels himself crumpling to the ground, tackled by somebody, conscious and aware that his knee surrendered, once again, and the tears start to fall before he can feel the pain.

-

Louis doesn’t need to turn around to understand where does that whimper of sheer pain come from, because he would recognise that voice in a sea of other voices. He stands stock-still on the grass, paralysed, the ball that rolls in between his feet and he can’t bring himself to kick it, he can’t move, he can’t look around, he can’t do anything, not even shove the ball outside of the field, he just stays there, while his teammates didn’t stop at all and are just waiting for him to restart the game, but he can’t because he’s literally frozen.

Then the referee whistles and it’s like he’s brought back to reality, he spins around and sees the actual image of what had flashed his mind for a second, Harry on the ground, eyes wide open, his chest that pacey rises and falls, holding his bloody knee, an agonising grimace on his lineaments. And Louis feels crumpling, too.

“ _No,”_

He finally manages to run to him, he gets on his knees and crawls to his boy, fright written all over his face, he rubs a hand over Harry’s damp forehead and then throws it through his hair. He searches for his eyes, which are empty, and he feels him shake under his hands, so he forces him on the ground, flat on his back, to try and calm him.

“Lou,” pleads Harry.

“Shh, don’t talk. It’s okay,” says Louis, keeping combing his hair with his fingers. Then, ignoring the mob surrounding them, ignoring the boos from Manchester United’s supporters, the indignant yells of the few Inter fans who came all the way to Old Trafford, ignoring the referee, Harry’s teammates who are asking the ref for a red card, his own teammates, thousands and thousands of people who are watching the match from every part of the world, the pundits who shocked are about to comment this moment, ignoring them all, because he doesn’t care, he truly doesn’t care anymore, he bends over Harry and he kisses him.

“Who did it?” he asks Harry, his voice calm and glacial, while he takes his face in his hands and keeps caressing it. "Baby, who did it?"

The referee blows his whistle again, allowing the medical staff and the paramedics to enter the pitch and assist Harry.

“Oi Styles, sorry, did it hurt?”

Louis suddenly looks up and sees Juan Costa, who evidently tackled Harry, coming close to him with a hand stretched out and a mocking smile on his lips. And that just does it for Louis. He leaves Harry to the cure of the doctors and stares at Juan in disgust, then he takes his hand and he drags him on the ground with him, he sits on top of him and he starts to punch him, with all the brutality he can master, until his nose starts to bleed.

“You—fucking—asshole,” he yells, and he can’t see anything, he can just perceive the chaos that surrounds them, and then he hears Niall’s voice and his strong arms that drag him away from Juan.

“Louis are you out of your fucking mind?” he feels Nevan and Niall try to stop him and block his arms, while he still fidgets and moves with the anger exploding in his chest. He sees the referee pull out the red card and show it to Juan and to _him._ He can’t believe it. He’s being banned for punching his own teammate, and if this is not the most ridiculous red card in the history of forever, then he doesn’t know what could compare.

But he doesn’t bring himself to care, it was due and it was worth it. He spots the bunch of paramedics surrounding Harry, sees that they’re setting a stretcher and they’re ready to put him on hit, while some steward opened the emergency gate and an ambulance is just there waiting for them.

“Let me go! Fuck off, just leave me alone,” shouts Louis, wriggling away from his teammates’ hold, who let him, helpless and resigned.

“Lou, don’t do anything stupid,” says Niall, but Louis just ignores him, getting close to the doctors.

“What happened? What are you doing?” he asks them, voice feeble, dim and tentative like the flame of a candle. “Where are you taking him?”

“To the hospital, _put his leg into a splint, careful, avoid a trauma,_ it looks like it’s a lesion but we need further medical scrutiny, _on the count of three we’re moving him on the stretcher,”_ answers messily a doctor.

It can’t be happening. Not this, not again. Harry doesn’t deserve this, not when he had found his place on the football pitch, not when he was doing so well.

“Tomlinson, step out of the pitch immediately!” barks threateningly the referee, tapping his pen on the pocket on his chest, to remind him he’s just showed him a red card.

Louis can’t feel his legs, but somehow he manages to follow the doctors, who are carrying Harry out of the pitch, inside the ambulance, but he suddenly feels a hand gripping his wrist.

“Don’t even think about it, Tomlinson, go straight to the locker room and we’ll square it up as soon as the match is over,” snarls coach Johnson, face purple with anger, pointing Louis the tunnel. He looks like he’s about to explode, after losing two players at once and being only one goal ahead, with more than one half of the match still to play. But how could Louis obey.

“I don’t fucking care,” snaps Louis, trying to get away from him.

Mourinho steps out of his box and quickly approaches them, grabbing Johnson’s arm and drawing him closer to whisper in his ear. “Let him go.”

Louis takes advantage of this distraction to wriggle out and get out of the pitch, as Johnson stares at Mourinho with hatred and faces him with fire in his eyes. “Don’t tell me what to do, I’m his coach, not _you_. This is _my_ team now.”

Mourinho gives him a half-smile as he points at Louis climbing into the ambulance.

“Yeah, You’re right. But _I_ would have known how to stop him. If I wanted to,” he murmurs, before going back to his bench to tell one of his player he’s going to substitute Harry.

-

When Harry finally opens his eyes he only sees darkness. He would have liked to see the light and some colours after hours—or maybe days?—of looking at the dark, but maybe, he thinks, his eyes wouldn’t take the strain, just like he doesn’t take the strain of a lot of things.

But the more he bats his eyelids, the more he makes out that the room is just semi-dark, that the curtains let the lights of the night seep through. And if he struggles a bit, he can even get a glimpse of the things in the room, like the outline of the wrinkled sheet covering his legs, the furniture in the room, a glass of water on the bedside table, a bunch of flowers that he hopes it’s sunflowers, even it should be hard to find sunflowers in this time of the year, that weird stuff that holds up the intravenous drip, a chair just beside his bed, the person who’s sitting on it.

Harry can’t see his tears, but he hears his worked up breathing, and he can see him like shadow bringing his hands on his face, massage his temples tiredly. And if Harry weren’t immobilised in that hospital bed he would have taken those hands in his, he would have hold tight onto them, even if his own hands are weak and cold.

Instead he exhales a sigh that is as dark as the room, and in the silence Louis notices and abruptly looks up, coming a little closer with caution. Harry feels the slick fabric of Louis’ football shorts brushing his own sweaty arm and just that illusion of a touch makes him feel a bit better, because it means that Louis is there for real, that he’s not dreaming or imagining it all.

“How are you?” Harry asks, eyes glassy and guilty. As he tries to speak, he feels that his throat and lips are extremely dry, and his voice comes out in a hiss. He goes to reach for the glass of water on his bedside table, but Louis is faster and moves to take it, snorting faintly, because he knew quite well how Harry had a special inclination for asking stupid questions, but maybe the time they spent apart made him forget how stupid they could actually be.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to ask you?” whispers Louis tentatively, flattening one hand on Harry’s back to help him drink. Harry looks at him silently, a bit gloomy, cheeks full of water, then he swallows.

“You know what I mean.”

Louis stares back, eyes pensive and delicate on Harry, then he makes some room for himself on the bed, careful not to brush Harry’s leg, and pulls a sad expression.

“You need to rest, love,” he points out.

“No, I need you,” counters Harry blinking, and he sags further into the cushions without adding anything more, like he’s come to terms a long time ago with this untarnished truth, like it’s a fact, and admitting it it’s nothing.

"I was a dick to you," says Louis, as if Harry’s words haven’t taken a massive weight off his chest. He tries to twitch his mouth into a self-condemning smile, which, for what brings back to Harry’s mind, makes a shiver run down his spine.

“I did this in the wrong way, too. I didn’t have to leave you just because I needed to be me, I was so selfish,” Harry pulls his eyebrows together, frowning angrily at himself. It’s usual for them, to keep fighting after a fight because they both feel like they’re at fault.

“You walked away physically, but I walked away on our relationship,” sighs Louis.

“But that was a consequence of what I did.”

“It was. But I was a dick for not admitting that distance or anything could matter. That even if months passed we weren’t becoming something else, it was still us. Angry, broken, but still us.”

Harry looks up at Louis, and he doesn’t dare touching, afraid he’s misunderstanding him.

“Still us,” he echoes.

“Yeah.”

“What kind of flowers are those?” he asks out of the blue, pointing at the vase on the bedside table.

“Forget-me-not.”

Harry looks like he’s about to cry, and Louis thinks that he can’t keep doing this to them, to Harry, not when he’s already so broken, not when he doesn’t need to suffer more, when he only needs his protection.

“I could never,” says Harry, taking Louis’ hands in his. This gesture, that feels so familiar, makes him quiver.

“I was hoping so.”

Maybe they were actually both wrong. Harry had accepted too quickly that solution, thinking only about his future, without asking Louis, because in a relationship things work like this. And Louis, Louis has still so much to learn, he still has to understand that is not always all or nothing.

"I miss you so much Lou," admits Harry, becoming conscious of all his mistakes. He closes his eyes tiredly, like he wants to protect himself from an explosion, and he understands why it’s been two months that he hasn’t been able to shake off this agitation. It’s not because of the new team, of his new mates, the language, the fight with Louis. It’s because Louis wasn’t that steady presence beside him anymore.

Louis doesn’t explode, though. He comes closer, and now there’s not a spot where they’re not touching, and his warmth, and his skin feel a lot like home. They can still work. Harry can go back to Manchester for his surgery, stay there for the physical therapy. And Louis will be there, with him, from the beginning, they will do this together, and Harry will come back, once again, and Louis will still be his number one supporter.

It will go well.

“I’m so sorry baby,” he tells him, again, because he figures that could be a good new start.

“Are you worried for me?” asks him Harry apprehensively.

It sounds like an innocent question, but Louis understands that Harry means like it’s Louis’ call. And he could always say no, and get out of the room, and not bothering trying again. But could he ever? After he’s sent his own teammate to the hospital for a nasal fracture, after being banned from the pitch for God only knows how many matches, after sitting beside Harry in the ambulance instead of going back to the locker room, after kissing him in his anaesthetic sleep, after his body caught fire at the mere contact with Harry’s lips?

But he doesn’t want to tell him that he’s worried, even if he really is, because he doesn’t want Harry to fret. Because, even if Harry surely figured how serious this new injury is, he still doesn’t know what he is going to be put through, and he doesn’t want to scare him. Harry doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve anything of the stuff that happens to him. Because Harry is good and innocent, and he just likes to dream, but everything he gets in return for being him is pain. Even Louis fell into this trap.

After a moment of silence he feels the tears building up in his eyes, so he kisses Harry, earnestly, tenderly, to hide his face from his sight. When they part he tries to contort his mouth into an hopeful smile, but all he manages is a sad grimace.

Harry nods, quieter now, like he’s understood, and lets his eyes wander outside the window.

“Sometimes I think it’s my prerogative to ruin everything. As if I was scared of being happy. Because, you know, when I’m about to reach happiness I see it crumble before my eyes. I feel myself crumble.”

Louis can’t stand listening to these words, thinking of how helpless and sorrowful he must feel. Thinking of how Harry always feels the need to take all the blame, even when it’s not his fault. Thinking of how brave he was to face all of this on his own. But he won’t be alone anymore, now that Louis is by his side.

“I don’t know if I’m actually scared of being happy, Lou. But I know that I’m scared,” he looks at his treacherous knee and it’s like he’s looking at all his hopes being suffocated by the bandages.

Louis untucks the blankets and gets in bed beside Harry, who nestles up to his body, breathing tiredly with his head on Louis’ chest.

“Don’t leave me,” whispers Harry, without even trying to hide the imploring tone of his voice. “Please. Don’t leave me, Lou.”

Louis wipes away with a thumb the tears rolling down his cheeks and pulls him closer to his chest, holding tight, because he already agreed to a request he was only waiting to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry


	5. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, there we go with the epilogue! And for my standards is also relatively angst-free! What a goal.  
> I want to thank [flylikeabird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flylikeabird/pseuds/flylikeabird) a lot for being so quick to beta-read this chapter, so that I could post it straight away. You're the best.  
> Also thanks so everybody who read and commented, you're all very beautiful!

Harry instinctively giggles against the pillow when he feels two fingers tenderly run along his face, tickle the side of his neck and then trail to his naked shoulder to slowly brush circles on his skin. He opens his eyes, still puffy with sleep, to look for Louis’ blue ones, calm like the ocean floor, where everything is fluctuating, muffled and cocoon-like. The boy is sitting, his back leaning against the headboard of the bamboo bed, head reclined and resting against the wall.

“Lou,” grumbles Harry sleepily. “Morning. Too early” he moans in a whiney and drawling tone, puffing out his cheeks in a pout, disentangling one arm from the sheets to grip delicately Louis’ knee.

Louis looks at him with a lazy smile and brings his own hand on top of Harry’s, intertwining their fingers.

“I’m sorry babe. I was just thinking,” he says, and then he diverts his look to stare outside the glass door, which is slightly open, letting a pleasant and chilly breeze inside the room, a breeze that the Brasilian weather allows only early in the morning. _Seriously_ fucking early.

Even from where they’re laying on the hotel bed, they can peek at the white beaches of Ipanema, where the English National Team has their training camp. They can spot the thin logs of the palm trees that stud the Jardim de Alah, the sun rising on the horizon, just above the sea, hear the muffled voices of some brave jogger running down the boulevard.

“Don’t do that,” complains Harry, subtly trying to draw Louis towards him, so that maybe he will go back to lay next to him. He’s _sleepy_ , okay? And it’s the crack of dawn. How does Louis manage to even _function_ at the earliest light of the day, especially after the load of work under the sun from the day before, without even eating anything, remains a big mystery for Harry. He sometimes suspects Louis’ not human at all.

“At least not until we’ve had breakfast,” he tries to formulate, fighting back a shameless yawn.

“Don’t you want to know what I was thinking?” asks Louis, oddly serious, in a tense breath. He doesn’t cave to Harry’s hold and stays upright, but he doesn’t release his hand, either.

“No,” mumbles Harry, burying his head under the pillow and the sheets, too, to protect himself from the sunlight that it’s starting to seep through the fluttering white curtains.

Louis stifles a soft laugh and doesn’t push, just stares fondly at him for some minutes, until Harry, aware that Louis’ eyes are on him, snorts loudly, making a big deal out of it, and resurfaces from under the blankets, hair a ruffled mess and mouth curled into a grimace.

“Fine,” he finally caves. He moves, to rest his head on top of Louis’ stomach, allowing him to run his fingers through his hair. He half-closes his eyes, letting his mind relax under Louis’ peaceful touches. “Tell me.”

“Do you remember what we were doing one year ago?” asks Louis. And more than a question, Harry understands how this is the answer to why he felt the need to wake him up at this time in the morning with no apparent reason.

Harry stiffens abruptly, and doesn’t worry about Louis noticing, doesn’t try to hide it. He reclines his head a bit so both his eyes can peek at Louis, and he sees that despite his voice cracking, he looks absolutely calm and in control.

Why on _earth_ does Louis have to bring out this stuff right in this moment, though? He knows it’s painful and it makes them both sad, and they have this kind of agreement where they avoid the topic as much as they can, so why does he want to talk about it when they are perfectly happy and can put the moment to use and sleep a little bit more, pressed against each other, limbs tangled together?

“Yes,” is Harry’s dry reply, and his face clouds all at once, eyes narrowed. “Even though I’d rather not.”

Louis tries a comforting touch on Harry’s head, massaging his scalp. Harry feels his stomach foul and burn at the sole memory of himself, only one year before, standing in front of an empty suitcase and a stack of folded clothes, confused on what to pack for one year, or maybe a lot more. And then alone, in front of his laptop, sitting on the bed in his room, in his mum’s house, where he came back for the holidays, instead of going to Greece with Louis as they had planned months prior, trying to make sense of all those rental ads of beautiful flats in Milan, because now that he had a real footballer wage he could finally afford something nice. But despite being nice, every single flat looked too big and scary to live in there on his own when he had already planned to spend most of his time at Louis’ where he was practically living before they fought. Looking at those houses, and wondering what was Louis doing and if, sometimes, he was thinking about him.

“But it taught us a lot. This year, I mean” mumbles Louis sheepishly, a bit melancholic, and his mouth curves into a deprecatory smile. Because when Louis came back to Harry, he told him everything. He told him how hard was for him to wake up every morning and deal with the fact that he wasn’t there, in his bed, next to him, and then go to the Manchester United’s training camp and know that Harry wouldn’t be there either, that he was in another country. And then start the football season and fully realise that they won’t have their seat close on a bench in the locker room anymore, their lockers next to each other, knowing that he was in another team, in another city, living new experiences, meeting other people, maybe meeting someone that would be more important than Louis, doing all these things that Louis knew they wouldn’t share, and not having the courage, or the right, even, to call him, to ask what he was doing, and if maybe he missed Louis just as much as Louis missed him, that even the half of that would be enough.

“We’re a lot better at this now, though. Right?” asks Harry stretching out his arms and making grabby hands, that Louis takes instinctively and brings on his face.

They came out in a very private way. They sort of had to, after Louis basically kissed Harry in front of millions of people. But it was okay. Louis still feels guilty for outing them without Harry’s consent, but Harry keeps telling him to stop being stupid, because he’s so proud of what they have, he’s always wanted to share it with everyone, to yell it to the world.

They let the media go wild for a couple of weeks, giving Harry the time to get his surgery done and recover a bit. Louis was very strong, because while Harry was in the cocoon of the hospital, away from every social media (because Louis hijacked his phone a gave him one that looked like it escaped the war, although it had Snake on it, so it was actually glorious) and newspapers, he was out there, dealing with the whole shitstorm for the both of them, and avoiding every comment. Then they released an official statement on their twitter, and it was there, out, in the light of the day for everyone to know.

They did it together, curled up on Louis’ couch. They wrote it and pressed the send button, and then they turned their phones off, they turned the television off and they kissed and cuddled and made love until the next morning, ignoring everything and everybody else.

It’s been good, most of the time, and quiet. They get to keep their privacy, even if sometimes it’s not easy, and maybe the fact that they play for two different teams helps, at least to this cause, to keep a professional look to their job.

But even if they’re good now, they made it through this incredible year, Harry never dares confess to Louis that even if it seems like they can deal with the distance, and they manage to see each other even more than expected, there are moments in which Harry crumbles, and he is somewhat happy that Louis isn’t there to witness how ridiculous and weak and pathetic he is, but at the same time if he was there he wouldn’t be like this, he wouldn’t need to call him, at weird hours, to nervously giggle on the phone, _I miss your voice_ , to justify a call in the middle of the night, when they both have practice the day after, when no, it isn’t only because of that, but he can’t say what it really means, _I miss you, I want you here with me now, why aren’t you here with me now_.

It had been so easy, so natural, going back to Manchester when he injured his knee again, and let Louis take care of him. Manchester United used their pre-emption right on Harry and had him go under surgery and recover with the supervision of the United’s medical staff, because Harry was still partly a Manchester player. It went okay, maybe too okay, because when Harry fully recovered and went back to Inter Milan for the other half of the season, it was like his talent had exploded, and he did so well that he was called up for the World Cup, and now Inter is very likely going to pay the fee to complete the permanent transfer. _Very likely,_ his agent told him, and he then told Louis, biting his lips.

Both know it’s going like this and they have some time to accept it.

“I guess so,” allows Louis, tightening the grip on Harry’s hands as if he could slip away from his hold once again. And that gesture makes Harry wonder, with a sad smile, that maybe if Louis still thinks about this stuff, if it makes him wake up like this at six in the morning, if it tortures him so much that he can’t fall back asleep, maybe he isn’t _a lot better at this_ , at all. Maybe he just learned how to control it, how to keep everything inside so he won’t upset Harry further, how to not explode like he used to.

And it’s the same for Harry, actually, because it’s not like he is better, or he likes that they live two separate lives despite being together. It was so, so easy, when he was still doing therapy at the Trafford Centre and he basically moved in with Louis, and they could spend all their time together, and Louis waited every day for Harry's therapy session to finish after his own practice and drove him home and they had dinner together and did stuff _together_. It looked like it was the natural development of getting back with him.

But then Harry recovered, and the distance was between them, again. And Harry thinks that maybe becoming an adult means also this, that you need to make important life decisions even when they’re painful in some aspects, and be aware and convinced of your own actions, because a fairytale world, where everything is easy and perfect, does not exist.

In a fairytale world, he would implore Louis to move to Inter Milan, so they could be together again. But in the real world, he would never ask him something like that, because it would be a total sacrifice. He would never ask him to change his life, to put his career at stake, to do this when he is a symbol of Manchester, when that team is everything to him. Especially not when Louis accepted to see him go, and suffered to let him be. Because he also knows that if he ever found the nerve to ask him, Louis would say yes. It’s something he’s absolutely sure of, even if it doesn’t depend on him and Inter Milan wouldn’t probably be able to buy him, but the mere fact that Louis would do it it’s enough to stop him, because he knows he couldn’t be happy knowing that Louis is depriving himself of something or even thinking about doing so. They have different careers and they must make it work.

But to be honest, he thought it would be different. Every time Louis comes to Milan, after he’s played with Manchester, Harry never manages to enjoy the few hours they have together. From the moment Louis steps out of the arrivals, he can’t think of anything but when Louis will kiss him goodbye the morning next, while Harry is still asleep, when he will leave with a sigh his— _their_ room in Harry’s flat, when he will take a taxi to the airport to catch the first flight that will bring him back to Manchester, in time for practice.

He also tries not to feel guilty whenever he’s watching Manchester United play, sprawled on his couch, and he sees Louis jogging tiredly by the touchline, play poorly, struggling to run fast as he knows he can, tries not to think that this is all because Louis’ tired of what they have to do to keep this relationship going.

This is why he relishes so much in this time they’ve got together because of the training camp with the English National Team. God, it feels so unreal to say that. Even Gemma, who dislikes football a lot, was impressed by the fact he was called up. It’s a big fucking deal. And this time, which is a lot by the way, something like a month, feels a bit like holiday, even if there’s some serious work to be done. It also feels like it’s fleeting, ephemeral, because he knows that it will end eventually, and then they will have a month of holidays, but that will end too, and they will have to be apart again, for another year, going back and forth from Italy to the UK, from Manchester to Milan, again and again, so they can talk, face to face, so they can touch, so they can look at each other in the eyes, because when Harry can’t bathe in Louis’ blue pools for too long he feels like dying.

But it’s worth it, in the end. The struggle. It will always be worth it.

“We are so lucky to be here together,” considers Louis. And Harry loves him, for how he deals with this, for how he had to change his views, for understanding that both things are important to Harry in the same way, to be completely happy with himself.

“Considering that wives and girlfriends’ visits are not allowed in the training camp period at all, I’d say we’re more than very lucky,” smirks Harry smugly, brushing his knuckles over Louis’ naked hip. He scans the big suite they’re sharing, like always, like they used to do in the brief time when they played for Manchester United together and had to play an away game, and the first thing they did as soon as they entered an hotel room was connecting the two twin beds and roll onto them, hugging and cuddling, tired from the travelling.

“I wasn’t talking about _that_!” giggles Louis, swatting his hand away and making Harry pout. But then he hints a smile and doubles over to kiss his pout away, the gentlest peck of their lips. So maybe yes, he was talking about that, too.

“We’re going to play the World Cup, can you believe it?” says Louis. “It’s crazy, if you think about it,” his eyes emanate a light that makes them shine.

“It’s not that crazy for you, though. You’ve been in the National Team for three years now,” objects Harry. “But yeah, it’s amazing being in the same team again. Even if it’s ‘only’ the National Team. But we get to play together like at the beginning.”

His words make a smile bloom on Louis’ lips, and he diverts his look as if he needs to preserve it.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, scratching Harry’s head. “Think of how many things happened since we met, how many matches. Think of how far _you_ have come.”

Harry pulls an embarrassed smile, like every time Louis starts with these unnecessary displays of pride.

He’s right, though. What are the odds of recovering from a repeated injury like the one he suffered and make it to the World Cup? It’s insane. And maybe it’s a sign that it’s Louis and him, to have the weight of this team on their shoulders, Louis and Harry, who ran along two different paths that somehow ended up in the same place. And this new task charges them with a new responsibility, with pressure, that they can share, for once, from the beginning, it doesn’t matter how it goes.

“It’s weird, right? And scary, too,” whispers Harry, pensively, and probably this is the first time ever in which Louis doesn’t try to shrug off his worry, to make it better, to reassure him, to laugh it away. And Harry understands that he’s scared, too.

They made Louis the new captain. He couldn’t get why, as he’s been in the team only for three years. But the coach told him they want to build a National Team of young and talented players, that can last, and he’s the perfect exponent of this concept, as the youngest and most successful English player in business.

“I know,” he replies, sliding on the mattress and tilting his face so that it’s right in front of Harry’s, and their noses can touch and nuzzle.

“It will go well,” he adds, and it’s like his mantra now, and it’s said in the most firm and confident tone of voice he can manage.

“It will go well,” echoes Harry, half-smiling and leaning in a bit more, searching and finding another kiss.

They stay silent, just looking at each other. They often do this, Harry because he’s always asking himself how could he do without all of this, all of Louis, how did he manage in those awful two months when they broke up, how will he do once the World Cup will be over and football season will start and they’ll be back to their own teams; and Louis because he wants to imprint every single minuscule detail of Harry’s face, that he already knows by heart, in his mind, without ever letting go of his hand.

“It will go so well that probably every top team will want you to join them once the transfer window opens,” shrills Louis abruptly, his ears red and flustered. Harry opens his eyes and finds Louis’ scanning him, almost begging for reassurance. And he finally understands the meaning of this conversation brought up by Louis at six in the morning, and with the stomach cringing in frustration he wonders if Louis woke up with this thought or if it prevented him from falling asleep at all.

“You’re not going to run even further away from me, right?” asks Louis, and Harry can sense the doubt weasel its way in his words, and it hurts, it breaks his heart, it opens a _wound_ in his heart, more than Louis can imagine.

As if he’s happy of being far away. As if he likes that they need to take a jet if they want to see each other, that they always need to deal with the fact that the clock is ticking faster when they’re together.

And he’s starting to think, and think a lot, that it’s too much sometimes, that he keeps going with the hope that sometime soon things will change, but this will already be his second year in Milan, so when are things going to actually change? And in what way?

“Not even further,” he says, hoping to convey certainty with his voice, even though his words come out in a choke. Louis widens his eyes and props on his arms, helplessness written all over his face. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

“What?”

Harry sighs, and tries to bring him back down to him, cursing himself for not being able to ever shut up. It’s not like there’s something up or anything.

“Nothing Lou, I was just thinking out loud.”

“But you want to _move_? Like go to another team? I thought you were good at Inter!” says Louis bewildered.

“I _am_ good,” he fires back, throwing one hand on his face and through his hair. “I’m more than good, it’s not that, I don’t want to move, it’s—I don’t even know what I was saying.”

It’s just. Where can he start, and never finish, telling Louis all the things he’s been thinking over the past months, and especially now that they get to spend all this time together, the realisation of how much he’s been missing out?

And especially, that this year has been so fucking hard that he doesn’t know whether he can go on anymore, but he knows there are expectations, and he’s brought himself to care a lot about his new team and— _priorities_. It’s always so hard sticking to those.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” asks Louis, a bit distressed, rolling on top of him and placing his forehead against Harry’s.

“Nothing, love,” he replies, closing his eyes and trying to relax his features under the blow of Louis’ breath. “Nothing, I swear. I love you,” he whispers in a sigh.

“I love you too. That’s why I need to know what’s wrong,” insists Louis, cupping Harry’s face in his hands. Harry opens his eyes again, finding Louis’ right in front of him.

“Nothing Louis, I promise,” he manages to reiterate, before bringing his lips to Louis’ to prevent them both from thinking too much.

 

-

 

Twenty years old, and Harry has already played in the biggest and most famous stadiums in the world. Every other Sunday he plays in San Siro, and he doesn’t know if he will ever get used to its majesty. Once he played in the Allianz Arena, and at the end of the match the red lights went down, together with the Bavarian team, who they managed to kick out of the Champions League. He used to play in Old Trafford, the stadium of his childhood, of his favourite team.

The Amazon Arena is not more spectacular or different from all these stadium, set as it is in the sultry chaos that is Manaus, but standing on that pitch, that looks like it’s giving light to the whole stadium, singing the English anthem at the top of his lungs, one arm draped around Zayn’s shoulders, Louis’ hand firm and steady on his hip, feels like one of the best moments of his life. Nothing compares the pride of being there because he’s been chosen to represent his country.

To be honest, none of them think it will be easy, but it would be ridiculous to think they will lose even before starting to play, which is what they’re here for.

The Italian National team is not at its best. They’ve got several injuries and their defence is uncertain and clumsy, and even when they try to build the game or to organise a manoeuvre, they often lose the ball when it reaches the midfield, so that it’s really easy for him or Zayn to interject the ball and restart, even though reaching the net is not to be taken for granted.

Harry realises, as he runs and plays, how much his football has evolved. He’s became so tactically smart, he’s learned to make clear-cut passes, punctually placing the ball on his teammates' feet, he knows how to foreshadow what his opponent is about to do. But at the same time going back to playing with Louis and Zayn makes him put all the technique lessons aside and just kick the ball, run, have fun, with the spontaneity he thought he couldn’t feel anymore, and when he passes the ball he knows Zayn will get it, because it’s normal, they almost play in symbiosis, and sometimes he finds himself somewhere in the pitch and he just knows somebody will pass a nice ball to him.

That’s why when Italy scores, the goal, along with the roar of the supporters, comes to break that moment of disillusionment and happiness to bring him back on the pitch, where there’s a team that is suffering, to remind him of what is at stake, the bloody World Cup, the first match of the stage group, something which is simply too important to be thrown away like this, just because they dropped their guard for one second.

He lifts his chin up and sees Louis run and tackle with determination an Italian defender to seize the ball, his eyes that convey how his pride is hurt. He picks himself up and he starts again, from the midfield, fast, only direct passes. Louis still manages to fight, Harry doesn’t know how, it looks like he’s the only one bright and on, the only one who’s not tired, the only one who hasn’t lost heart, who still has the faith and the strength to give Harry an encouraging smile.

Louis plays a football melody that goes faster and faster, then it slows down, smooth as jazz, when he stops to think, eyes darting on the ball,  only to start running again, aim fixed in his head. Louis is a brilliant footballer, and Harry follows him in the box, bewitched, waiting for him to fix this mess, _certain_ that he will fix this mess.

The goal is Harry’s, but the exertion is all Louis’, who doesn’t find it hard spinning on himself without losing the control of the ball all the same. The ball ends up on his right foot, Zayn passed it, and Louis knew perfectly where it would have ended up and where he had to kick it, on Harry’s left foot, his best to kick, in a position where he can almost score a penalty in movement.

It’s a flash, bending his body and touching the ball gently for Harry to score, for Harry to kick it right where the woodwork meets the post, leaving the Italian goalkeeper outwit on the ground.

And Harry knows this is only the goal that equalises the score, but he runs to Louis anyway, feeling that his heart is about to explode in his chest, pointing at his boyfriend from afar, and jumping in his arms when he reaches him, his ears that buzz with happiness, with the yells, and with the boos, too, because this country is not very fond of their National Team.

The first half ends and they’re still 1-1, but they are aware that it’s still on, there’s still time. They can win.

But five minutes in the second half are enough to feel like they’ve been swallowed up by the pitch, to understand that it’s not in them winning this one, because Balotelli strikes a header and the stadium explodes, and his vision becomes blurred with all these blue clad people jumping at each other and celebrating.

There’s still time left, there’s still time, he repeats like a chant in his head, even if it’s becoming clear that time is not the only thing they need to fix this, and they’re losing confidence, and Louis seems the only one left to believe they can do it.

Three minutes before the referee whistles the end of the match he thinks he can celebrate Louis’ free kick, but it misses the goal mouth by centimetres, it brushes the woodwork and goes straight into the stands.

Harry runs to him to pat his back and comfort him, even if both realise that they missed this chance, and Louis drops on his knees with a sigh full of tears and shame.

 

-

 

Harry hasn’t lost his habit to be the last one to leave the locker room. Tonight, though, after the match ended,  they forced him to shower and get dressed in a rush, to wear the official garment and show up in front of the cameras, to release interview after interview even though the only thing he wanted to do was cry under the jet of the shower like his teammates, to listen to journalists give some bland compliment for trying, some unrequested compassion, to get the stupid prize for man of the match, a match that ended in a draw, a dull 0-0 against Costa Rica that mercilessly kicks them out of the World Cup with only one meagre point to their credit.

He supplies to this charade, hoping it will end as soon as possible. When he goes back to the locker room he finds it empty, except for Louis, who is waiting for him, sitting on the bench, under the number ten, hair ruffled and naturally dried, plastered on his forehead, cheeks red from the hot steam coming from the showers and from the crying, and Harry has never found him more stunning and tragic at the same time.

He’s trying to tie his tie, pouting and snorting loudly at himself, because he always struggles while doing things when he’s nervous.

Harry gets closer, clearing his throat, and gestures him to stand up. He takes the hems of the tie in between his fingers and starts to tie it in the right way, just like Louis taught him ages ago, casually brushing his chest, eyes fixed on his own movements, not ready to meet Louis’ upset ones just yet.

“Thanks baby,” whispers Louis sadly, gripping his wrist  as soon as Harry’s done. Harry shakes his head, giving him a smile that is not an expression of what he feels, but more an effect from the sight of Louis in this state, of the sad warmth emanating from him, from the need to take him in his arms and never let him go.

As he does just so, he feels Louis finally burst into tears, tears that get Harry’s shirt all wet, in the spot where Louis hid his face, and his thin and warm fingers fisting the fabric of the garment as if it was the safest handhold.

“You know, I never expected we would win the World Cup, but I never expected this total whitewash either,” sighs Louis, rolling his eyes at himself, because he’s probably embarrassed by this outburst of feelings that is so unusual for him, even if he shouldn’t be, because he’s just in front of his Harry, always his Harry, who’s there, where he should be, this time, and if he asks him he will never let him go from his arms.

Harry brings one hand on Louis’ cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone, under his eye, as if he wants to smooth over the strained frown on his face.

“It’s not your fault, Lou,” he murmurs in his hair, and then kisses the top of his head as Louis’ sighs become more intense and echo, metallic, in the empty and aseptic locker room.

“It is, in a way. Mine more than everybody else’s,” the boy says, angry, parting a bit from Harry and looking up at his eyes. He didn’t even dare to blink and interrupt the look, because he knew if he closed his eyes he would already picture the newspaper headlines from the morning next, accuses, poisonous words, and he will have to deal with all of that starting from tomorrow.

There will be clumsy analysis of the match, people who were just waiting for this to happen to start throwing mud at him, again, and he can only think of the people, huddled up in the pubs, back home, in England, who’ve probably fallen into a silence loaded with disappointment, the same disappointment he feels towards himself, together with anger, and he thinks of all the people and the football experts who will say that they didn’t fight, that they didn’t put their best into this, that they don’t deserve this jersey.

But Louis did, he gave all of him. He gave his tears and his sweat, back-breaking trainings and all his talent. But maybe his all is not enough. And this is not the moment to start questioning all these years spent in football, his whole career so far, not after he’s played the _World Cup_ , which is a pretty big deal if you ask him.

It’s in the way they lost, though, which couldn’t be more frustrating. It’s in the feeling of failure, of not fulfilling the expectations, of not being able to carry his team when he had the chance to do it, because he was the captain, but he wasn’t a good enough one, he wasn’t able to talk them into winning.

“It’s not like you’ve got the weight of every responsibility on your shoulders just because you're the captain, Lou.”

Harry knows Louis is strong. He watches him wake up every day with a big smile, practice as if that’s the only thing that matters, change his expression in a suddenly more serious and relaxed one as soon as he enters the empty stadium, one hour before the match, fix the captain's armband on his arm with all the pride in this world. Captain of Manchester United, now captain of the England team. And he looks at that piece of stretchy cloth as if it’s the most important goal of his life, he looks at that in the same way he looks at Harry, and Harry looks at him.

Seeing him display his weakness like this it's odd and out of character. Harry has never doubted Louis’ perseverance. He’s always there, confident and determined, with a comeback always ready on his lips, with his hands on his hips while he warms up and watches the opponents, jeering, when he chooses the face of the medal before the kick off, when they win a match and he takes them out for a round of drinks, when they lose and he takes the whole team in his arms, careful not to leave anyone out, and he says how proud he is of _his_ team, that _it will go well_. That’s how Harry is used to see Louis. And even if he’s not at Manchester United anymore, to witness it, he has found all these things in the National Team, all his small gestures, his confident smiles, the way in which he brushes him casually whenever they exchange machine in the gym, the stolen kisses in between one workout and the other, or when he gathers him in his strong arms and whispers in his ear that to him he means the world.

But now it's Harry the one who has to be strong for him, who has to suddenly deal with seeing him so small and defenceless.

“But Harry, it’s because I _am_ the captain—I don’t want people to think I don't care. That I feel like I am above this defeat,” he sighs, and his lower lip is shaking. “You know they’ll do it,” he adds, before Harry can protest in reply.

“Lou,” breathes Harry on his shoulder, as if repeating his name, fill the air with it, could keep the rest, all the wrong thoughts, at bay. “Louis. What do you tell us before a match? That it will go well. And if it won’t go well it will the next time, or the other. And if we win you celebrate with everyone, you tell everyone how proud you are. And if we lose you hug us, you try not to make us think, and I know you would want to be the only one to think and over-think, that you would take all the hate on you if that meant not seeing your team crumbling before your eyes, like today. But sometimes you need to share the blame, and sometimes you need to understand you can’t always save the day.”

Louis takes a step back, lowering his eyes at the floor.

“I don’t need to _save the day_. Not for my team! We’re so young, we’re still inexperienced, we’re still building! Well we could do better, I could do better, but we—“ Louis’ words fade as he looks at Harry’s smug smile.

He sits on the bench and motions Louis to settle in between his legs. Louis leans with his body against Harry’s chest, and Harry starts to lull him, pulling away his fringe from his forehead.

“Now, these are the words of a true captain. On the boat till the end. And for the record, you were pretty amazing tonight. And who doesn’t understand what you did, the sacrifices you made for the sake of the game, running from one side to the other of the pitch to cover every spot, to make up for those playing like shit, and give away a lot of balls so you could be there for the team, so you could build the game, and not play just to be the best, whoever doesn’t understand that, doesn’t understand football at all, Lou. And neither does whoever gave me this stupid prize for man of the match, probably just because I was the only one to target the net, after you run along the touchline dribbling four defenders and passed me that ball. And _I_ missed the net,” says Harry, pointing at the prize discarded on the bench. “This prize should be yours,” he takes the small cup and puts it in Louis’ arms.

Luis turns around a bit with a scolding glare.

“Don’t be an idiot, this is yours,” he admonishes, trying to give it back to Harry. Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders, shaking his head.

“Nope. It’s in fact yours. You were by all means the best out of everyone, today, against Uruguay, when you had to play in another role so we could face their alignment, and that assist when we played Italy, that was unbelievable. They should give you a prize just for that,” nods Harry with certainty , while Louis snorts in between a sigh and a laugh.

Suddenly the door of the locker room opens, and Zayn takes some tentative steps inside, followed by the rest of the team and Niall, who in defiance of every cheer rule came to the stadium proudly wrapped in an Irish flag.

Without a word, Zayn walks closer and wraps his arms around Harry and Louis, followed suit by the other lads, surrounding their captain in a group hug, Niall included.

He doesn’t look happy, though, because he whispers a ‘ _fucking hell, don’t make me suffer because of bloody England,_ ’ making them burst into a collective laugh.

Then they fall into silence again, and Louis doesn’t need words to understand. Feeling the touch of every single one of his teammates is enough to understand they’re with him, no matter what, and he’s never been more proud of his boys like he is now.

“It will go well,” he whispers faintly, and he’s sure of that. Maybe not right now, but they’ve got time.

 

-

 

A month later, when Harry’s goal against Italy is awarded with the prize of best goal of the competition, because of Louis’ pass, a technical manoeuvre that will be put in the football encyclopaedia, nobody is that surprised, apart from Louis, who looks with incredulous eyes at the newspapers praising him.

 

-

 

“Oi, earth to Harry, is there anybody there?”

Barbara, laying on the sun lounger beside him, throws the bottle of sun cream on his stomach, growing a bit irritated. It forces Harry to divert his eyes from the pool, where Louis and Niall have engaged in an impromptu swimming competition.

He smiles weakly at her, squirting some cream on the palm of his hand and starting to spread it on his arms and chest.

“Sorry Babs,” he mumbles, taking some more cream and putting it mischievously on Barbara’s face. She makes a disgruntled face, taking off her sunglasses and spreading the cream on her cheeks.

“It’s just...there are other people here, too. I was talking to you but you keep zoning out,” she says.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he replies, but goes back to flash a glance at the pool, where Louis, unable to accept a defeat, is now trying to drown Niall with no mercy whatsoever. Harry smiles fondly, while Barbara rolls her eyes.

“In three days I won’t have any of this anymore,” he mumbles, pursing his lips and motioning to the big garden surrounded by a tall hedge of the massive villa on the beach they rented for the holidays. “I’m trying to relish the moment” he adds, passing the bottle of sun cream to Zayn, who’s laying on a towel next to him, by the edge of the pool.

“Stop being so optimistic, please,” snorts his best friend, grumbling quietly and earning a pinch on the side by Liam, who’s always the more understanding of them all. He actually looks at Harry sympathetically.

“Don’t be so insensitive, Zayn! Harry’s right, I would do the same if I had to live in a whole different country from Sophia,” he sighs, and Harry gives him a grateful grimace.

“But it’s not only three days, right? We’re going back to Manchester and the camp starts on Sunday,” objects Zayn.

“Zayn’s right, and you don’t have to leave to Italy until the week next. We can go and watch the Manchester United friendly match in the stadium and support our boys, like the good old times,” smiles Barbara, squeezing his knee.

Harry reclines his head and closes his eyes. Yeah, it sound like a plan. It would be good going back to Old Trafford, to watch Louis play, to that atmosphere that feels so familiar, that was painful to face for a long time, but now he’s used to it. Especially now, that he is for all intents and purposes an Inter Milan player, after the Italian team paid the fee for a final transfer just two weeks ago.

“Fine. Deal. And the day after I’ll leave. Can’t believe this is already my second year in Milan. It will be so hot I’ll melt,” he grumbles, covering his face with his hands. Then he suddenly feels a cold and wet body throwing himself at him.

“It was your choice to leave a rainy and polluted metropolis for an even more rainy and polluted one,” roars Niall, hugging him and shaking his damp hair wetting Harry’s face. “It’s the punishment you deserve for leaving us.”

“Piss off, Horan,” says Harry, pushing Niall away from him, trying to disentangle himself from his hold, while Barbara keeps laughing instead of helping him. “Again, remind me why did I think that having you join our holiday could be a good idea,” murmurs Harry, dabbing his chest with a flannel and doing the same with his sunglasses.

“ _Your_ holiday? _I_ was the one who found this house, you wanker! And you love it, that we’re here with you, admit it,” fires back Niall lazily, laying beside Barbara on her sun bed just as Louis emerges from the swimming pool.

Harry’s focus immediately shifts on his boyfriend, who stands a few steps away from where they’re all lying and squints his eyes from the sun, watching them bicker with a smile. Then he joins them, settling in between Harry’s legs and resting his back against Harry’s chest, warm from sunbathing.

“Sure, he must so love sharing the holiday with an Irish wimp who flees a water fight just because he’s too scared by some water in his nose,” singsongs Louis rolling his eyes. “And be careful of the names you call my boyfriend with, by the way,” he adds protectively, and Harry smiles against the skin of his back where he is leaning with his face and proceeds to squint his shoulder, snorting a laugh.

“Nah mate, my skin was just getting wrinkly from too much time in the water,” shrugs Niall, widening his arms. “And by the way, I seriously do not understand why you don’t have a problem when it’s Louis the one to throw himself at you all wet,” snorts Niall in an offended tone, making them all laugh, while Harry doesn’t say anything, just tries to stash this memory with all the happy ones he owns, tightening his legs around Louis’ waist and pressing his face further in his skin, breathing in his smell mixed with chlorine.

 

-

 

The team who concludes the calendar year at the top of the Italian league table, eight times out of ten, wins the championship. It’s pure maths, and maths is an objective thing, so it’s okay if they cling to that.

Of course they’re not playing to be the top team at the end of the year, but to win the league. It would be nice to spend Christmas knowing that they’re first, though, that they’re winter champions. So if something goes the wrong way they still have room to get things right, they would be still there to fight.

Mourinho strongly dislikes this kind of argument because he maintains that every match should be its own separate thing, as if their life depends on a singular game, so it’s vital to fight for the three points with all they’ve got. If it was for Mourinho, there wouldn’t be differences between the teams they play against. He unleashes them like lions on the pitch each time the same, and he demands and expects the best from each one of them.

But it’s right when there are those decisive matches that their team systematically gets stuck and they start to get uncertain and to fuck up, and Mourinho throws a hand in his sparse gray hair, exasperated, while they’re on the pitch, helpless, and even running or trying to score seems like defying some obscure rule of the universe for how hard it gets. If they lose today, AC Milan will get them, and the newspapers will spend the whole winter break talking about how they’re stuck in a crisis, about how they won’t make it, they’re not enough.

When the referee whistles a penalty, almost unbelievingly, Harry cannot fathom the clemency. Clearly someone loves them very much, because a penalty is the only thing that can unblock this match.

An opponent defender had held onto his shirt in the box, during a corner kick, and he made him fall to the ground, and the supporters exploded into an indignant yell. He went down easily, he felt his legs heavy as rocks and the impelling desire for this match to end, no matter what the score was.

It’s raining a lot, and Harry almost can’t see anything, and the raindrops hit his back as he bends down to fix the ball on the penalty mark. When the referee whistles again, he starts the run-up, thinking he will kick the ball in the top left corner, the stadium wrapped into a religious silence. But as he reaches the ball, he feels his boots slip faintly on the wet turf, enough to lose balance, and he doesn’t have control of the shoot anymore, so he kicks and sees the ball frustratingly hit the woodwork and bounce away.

He falls to his knees, hiding his face under the jersey, while his teammates come to him and give him fake encouraging pats on the back, as if they don’t blame him for fucking up so bad this chance.

Mourinho subs him after ten more minutes of fruitless and pernicious football and he has to step out of the pitch among the boos from the stands.

They have never booed him. They love him.

But maybe they don’t anymore, and who’s Harry to blame them. He was rubbish. He’s been rubbish for a while.

“What is happening to you, Pup?” asks Mourinho, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Harry doesn’t know.

 

-

 

When he feels guilty, when he knows he’s at fault, when he knows he didn’t do well, when he’s aware his performance didn’t match the expectations, Harry likes to walk home. It’s a bit more than a couple of miles walk, but breathing the cold air and inflicting himself with this kind of punishment helps him feel the tiniest better.

Not this time, though. Even if it’s pouring and that adds to his suffering, someway.

But a shameful walk under the rain is not enough, not after the whole stadium stood up specifically to boo him, as if he’s not worth a thing, as if he is not devoted to this team like he is to his own family.

And that’s the main problem. That he truly cares a lot. That he’s been here for one year and a half now, and he’s so used to these people who praise him, who sing his personal chant from the stands. But now the same people boo him with angry voices, or worse, disappointed voices, and it’s like all the good he has done has been erased and forgotten.

It would be easier if he didn’t care, if he could say fuck off, and shrug the criticism off his shoulders. There’s clearly something broken, something that prevents him from playing in the way he knows, and Harry doesn’t know how to fix it, how to regain the trust he’s lost.

He comes home, dripping water and tears and he freezes in the hall when he spots Louis, sitting on his couch, still wrapped in his grey pea-coat, rubbing his hands and casting Harry a worried look, while the television shows clips from the match they just played, that Harry doesn’t want to watch just yet.

But Louis is _here_. He’s in _Milan_. He has a practice session tomorrow, and he was in Manchester when Harry called him before the match. But now he’s here.

Harry’s crying becomes more intense, and he can’t do anything to stifle it, and after a moment in which he seems he can’t move, he regains the control of his limbs and runs in Louis’ arms, because Louis is the only person who can make disappear the boos of the whole San Siro stadium from his head.

“What are you even doing here,” blabs Harry in between the sobs. “You should be in Manchester,” he cries.

Louis kisses his temple and throws a hand in his damp hair. “I took a private jet. I was watching the match home and I saw— I needed to check on you, baby, I couldn’t—I used the key you gave me last year,” he rattles off.

He never had to use it, because Harry was always at the airport to pick him up, so they wouldn’t waste a second of Louis’ brief weekly trips in Milan. At his words Harry feels that more tears are pushing to come out.

“I can’t do this anymore, Lou,” he sighs, hiccupping on Louis’ shoulder and wrapping his arms around his neck. And he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, football, life, maybe all of it— _this_. It feels like his whole world is tumbling down.

“You’re not clear-headed right now,” says Louis, pushing him away and taking a hold of his hand. He stands up and hauls Harry up as well.

“Come with me,” he whispers. “I want to watch the night with you.”

Harry doesn’t question his request but follows him blindly outside, under the projecting roof that covers the small balcony. They sit on Harry’s outdoor armchair, curled up around each other, while the rain hammers on the wood of the canopy and blurs the view of the city in front of them, almost totally covered by the fog, that lets seep through the lights from the night.

Louis takes his time to undress Harry out of his wet blazer and shirt, then he gives him his coat and takes him in his arms again, so they can keep each other warm. He waits until Harry’s sobs turn into a panting breath and then completely stop, to intertwine his fingers with his.

“You know, it’s a nice view after all,” whispers Louis, brushing Harry’s ear with his lips. Harry gulps, because that’s an admission by Louis, who’s never managed to fully like Milan.

Probably because it took Harry away from him.

“It’s black and blue,” nods Harry, closing his eyes, tired. He feels better, though, warm and peaceful in Louis’ arms. Louis is his safe space.

“I want to stay here forever,” he admits, tugging at Louis’ sweater, nuzzling his face in his chest.

“That would be nice,” agrees Louis, caressing the top of his head. “There’s a world outside, though.”

“The world is stupid,” mumbles Harry, stifling a yawn, and he’s never looked more like a baby to Louis than now. He doesn’t say anything, he keeps combing Harry’s hair with his fingers, hoping it will calm him.

They sleep for some drawling hour, nestled up on that armchair, and Louis wakes up several times, each of them tightening his hold on Harry. The last one, he wakes up with Harry tugging at his sweater again.

“Lou, wake up. Babe.  _Louis,_ ” he murmurs, pouting. “You’ve got practice tomorrow morning. _This_ morning.”

“Sleep,” whispers Louis weakly, pecking faintly at his lips.

“They’re going to fine you,” protests Harry in a guilty tone.

Louis sighs.

“It’s worth it.”

 

-

 

One year and a half ago, Harry knew he would have been sitting at this very table soon, in the offices of the club, surrounded by Inter Milan managers, _his_ manager, just beside him, and Mourinho sitting in front of them. The men are talking about sums of money and projects, discussing his salary and the extension of his stay at Inter Milan. One year and a half ago, he thought that what he wanted was clear, that there was no need to discuss, to talk about money or other unimportant stuff, to waste words, that he just wanted to stay, that he would have signed that extension even if it was blank, because there wasn’t anything to hold him back somewhere else.

Then everything changed, because he made up with Louis, and his dream became more a nightmare, even if he still cares about this team. But he can’t help the lump in his stomach he feels as soon as the managers pull out sheets and clauses to sign, so he keeps his eyes down on his lap, nodding sporadically with no conviction every time his manager or the CEO say something, because he doesn’t dare speak up.

“Josè? What do you think?” urges Harry’s agent, addressing the Portuguese coach, who’s sitting on a swivel chair, legs crossed, and hasn’t said a word since when they started the meeting. “Doubled wage, extension until 2018 and a one million bonus whether the team wins the championship in the next two years, I think we all agree,” adds the manager, looking back and forth from Harry to the coach and nodding all pleased with himself.

“It think it sounds perfect,” adds the Inter sports director, pushing the sheets towards Harry, so he can sign them.

And Harry feels his heart sink to his stomach. Mourinho brings a hand under his chin and fixes a conspiratorial glare on Harry, who manages a nervous half-smile in return.

“Perfect,” drawls Mourinho thoughtfully, scratching his thin gray beard. He confessed to Harry that it was the Italian’s football fault. Too much stress.

“Yeah, it would be truly _perfect,_ ” he adds, batting his eyelids. “Such a shame it’s not what the Pup really wants.”

 

-

 

“I could hear your voice from the lift.”

Mateo enters Harry’s room making a disgruntled face at the radio, which is broadcasting a Beyoncé song. He smiles when he takes in the sight of Harry, humming along, standing in front of the wardrobe, the room full of suitcases, the bed covered in stacks of clothes.

“It’s an impossible task,” complains Harry, greeting Mateo with a gesture of his hand, without lifting his head up. “Can you explain to me how am I supposed to fit all the stuff I hoarded for one year and a half in two suitcases?” He whimpers, looking back and forth from two stacks of t-shirts on the floor to one suitcase, resting open on the desk, already half-full. He considers a t-shirt with a critical glance and throws it in the left stack, only to think better about it and put it on the right one.

“Look, this is the stuff I need to take with me,” he explains, pointing at the pile of clothes on the right, that by now has reached the height of a ten year old kid. “And those are the suitcases. How am I going to do this?” He dramatically drops onto the bed, throwing one hand on his forehead.

Mateo stifles a laugh and approaches the desk, careful not to stumble on the stuff blocking the way. “And that should be the stuff you want to leave?” he questions, motioning at a couple of old sweatshirts discarded on the floor.

“Yeah. At least I think so, I’m not sure. Maybe I should take those, too,” answers Harry in a tragic tone of voice.

“Harry, you’re a disaster,” ascertains Mateo, making his way among the clothes.

Harry props on his elbows to give him an outraged glance. “Well, last time I checked I called you to help me, not to remark on my inability to pack,” he fires back, rolling his eyes. He was actually hoping Mateo would do all the work.

The boy glances around with a critical attitude and then puts his hands on his hips. “Fine, I think we need an action plan. You’re not selling the flat straight away, right?”

Harry purses his lips and looks at him, pondering on the answer. “I actually—maybe it’s stupid, but I was thinking on keeping it. You know, if I want a get-away or something. For Louis and me. We have so many memories here. And I’m still too tied to this city to say goodbye,” he sighs, moving to the window and looking down at the street that leads to Porta Nuova. Mateo joins him and puts an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t want to cut the bridges, you know,” he adds.

“It does make sense. Then you can come to terms with the fact that it’s pretty much impossible to fit all this stuff in these suitcases. There wouldn’t be a reason, either,” nods Mateo, throwing the t-shirt he was holding in the stack of things to leave there and taking another sweatshirt, a red one, with the Manchester United logo on the chest and Louis’ initials just by the heart. “And half of the stuff in this room is Louis’, anyway,” he considers cautiously.

“Put it in the suitcase,” says Harry hurriedly, taking some of Louis’ match jerseys from the bed and putting them in the closer bag. Mateo suddenly is in front of him, gripping his wrist, with a sad smile twitching his lips.

“I can’t believe you’re going for real,” he whispers, coming a little closer and brushing his cheek with his lips.

Harry is paralysed for a moment, then he takes Louis’ sweatshirt from Mateo’s hands and he puts it on, cocooning himself in it and taking a step away. Then he changes his mind and goes to hug Mateo, tight as he can.

“I’ll miss you Mat,” he sighs, scolding himself because even if it’s hard to say goodbye, he can’t help being happy he’s leaving.

 

-

 

Just like the first time he arrived at the Inter Milan Training Centre, when the CEO gave him a tour of the site to show him all the facilities, he almost feels naked as he walks on the artificial turf in his normal clothes instead of football shorts and the training jersey, without his football boots, always the same old ones, gray and turquoise, that are literally worn-out after wearing them for the past two years, but he doesn’t care, he will keep wearing them until they’re completely destroyed, and then he will still keep them, as the most precious thing he owns. After Louis.

Winter is beautiful in the outskirts of Milan, where the centre is. Harry is surprised he can fully appreciate it only when he’s about to leave, when he doesn’t have to curse how freezing it is because it’s too freezing to even get out of the bed, when he doesn’t have to go to training in thin shorts and a jersey, with those stupid long socks on.

Now he can actually appreciate every second of this lonely walk towards the training ground, wrapped in his warm coat, admiring the icy tips of the trees, a few dilated minutes that he will keep stashed in his memory, the faint warmth of the sun rays that reflect on his shades, the light coating of snow on the new turf that wets his suede boots.

He finally arrives on the training ground, that Mourinho demanded to have shielded to hide his tactics from some clever fellows, a paper box with some clothes and the stuff he fetched from his locker in his arms. The team is in the middle of a scrimmage and the coach observes them carefully from the sideline. Harry stops on his tracks to look at him from behind the protective net as he agitates one arm to point out at Brković a spot on the field he keeps leaving uncovered, and then shakes his head, sort of resigned.

Harry places the box on the ground and goes past the enclosure, leaning against the banister that perimeters the pitch, clearing his throat, eyes darting on the coach.

Mourinho turns around briefly, giving him an indifferent look, then he goes back to give instructions to the defence, as if Harry was just an uninteresting part of the view, a tree, a lamppost.

Before saying anything, Harry takes a long and measured breath that stops him from shaking Mourinho by the shoulders to make him understand that it’s not his fault, that he’s sorry, that some decisions need to be taken. That even though he feels guilty, he’s happy he took them.

“Are you pissed at me, coach?” says Harry, voice thin.

“I’m not your coach,” is Mourinho’s dry and unflappable reply.

Harry clasps his hands behind his back and looks up at the sky, sighing tiredly. He can definitely sense the resentment in his voice, and he can definitely sense how he would think Harry has betrayed him.

He knits his brows together, annoyed at himself and at the universe more than at the coach, because it’s not fair how making a choice has to mean you systematically hurt somebody. Is this what life consists of? Making choices and deciding who you’d rather hurt? How is this normal?

“Don’t do this to me, please,” implores Harry, almost sobbing, of all the things he could say that wouldn’t make him look so pitiful and pathetic. And he didn’t even say goodbye to him, yet.

To him, to his teammates, to the centre, to the girl of that café close to his flat, who every morning, as soon as he arrives, smiles brightly and already puts on the counter a cappuccino, _doppio, grazie_.

Harry has never thought he could become a creature of habit, but all these goodbyes make him realise that maybe he actually is. He surely grows fond of people, and saying goodbye hurts a lot. That’s why he can’t allow Mourinho to feel resentful towards him, when Harry knows how much he owes to this man, who helped him when he mostly needed it, who trusted him so much he took him to Inter. Because without Mourinho he would probably be one in a million, while now he’s building his own career, always more successful.

He is thankful. He’s so fucking thankful. But having the coach act this way is like a punch in the face, because it feels like Harry doesn’t have rights on himself, he’s just there to appease everyone and everything, because that’s what people expect from him.

“You’ll always be my coach, you know that,” mumbles Harry sadly, and at his words Mourinho diverts his eyes from the training for the first time to look at Harry, eyes bright and affectionate and mouth twitched upwards, every trace of grudge disappeared from his features.

“That’s not true Harry,” he almost whispers, and Harry angles his body towards him, hopeful, as he listen to his name, that the coach hardly ever pronounces, relaxing the arms he had crossed on his chest almost to protect himself.

“I’m not your coach anymore, You need to obey to someone else now, you know that.”

E _ven if that someone else is that asshole of Johnson_ his face screams, but not him, because he likes to stay classy. “You know that?” He asks tentatively, as if he needs Harry to fully understand that, while his fingers nervously twirl the lace where he hangs his whistle.

“That doesn’t mean I’m finished with you, Pup,” Harry abruptly lifts his head up, smiling at the pet name being used again, the way Mourinho has to show his affection and his respect. And it’s so fucking important, that he needs to keep this memory, too, and sad, as well, because he realises he won’t hear it so often. “And I need you to give me the chance to finish, Pup. Just not now. We’re taking a break, eh?”

Harry’s smile grows wide, and so do his eyes, big and green. “See,” he drawls slowly, while he watches his now ex-teammates on the pitch, celebrating a goal. “See, I can still call you my coach after all.”

Mourinho sighs and stretches out one arm to hold on Harry’s shoulder, tight, as if that helps to better convey the concept. “You can, but I’m not your coach anymore. I can’t ask you to go back to your fucking position after a counterattack because that’s your job, and even if you like attacking you need to fetch the ball first.”

Harry bursts into a barking laugh, his face now relaxed and happy.

“If you’re laughing in my face it means that it’s just like that. Also, I can’t make you run one hundred laps as a punishment. Somebody else can, though. Somebody else will teach you new stuff, maybe he will change your position (but please tell him you work better as a playmaker, that’s _your_ position, Pup) and if you'll ever face Inter, you’ll need to go back to _his_ bench to listen to _his_ advice, not mine. See, there’s no point in calling me coach,” finishes Mourinho, a bit upset, and Harry nods, hugging him and then pinching his sides, which are bloated and not tonic like they used to be.

Ah. Italian food.

“It will be really hard.. _.José_?” asks Harry tentatively, stifling a mischievous laugh behind a hand.

“ _You,_ ” exhales Mourinho smirking, “spend too much time with Louis. You sound just like him. I should have put an end to all of this until it was still in my power,” he laughs, but Harry pouts frowning and tries to object, because he doesn’t like people joking about this and no, absolutely _no_ , he doesn’t remotely spend enough time with Louis. But he will fix that.

 _Soon_ , he tells to himself, and that thought hits him sudden, right in the stomach, it overwhelms him, it puts a smaller and intimate smile on his lips, that he tries to hide in the coach’s shoulder because he doesn’t want anybody to see.

“It’s true that I’m not your coach anymore, but my figure requires respect anyway. More respect, Pup. In fact, I’m always your Spiritual Father. Life Teacher. Wise Guide. Forward-looking…ah, _Counselor,_ ”  he utters in all seriousness, encircling Harry’s shoulders and earning himself another pinch in the stomach.

“Oh, sure. My Admirable Hofmeister. Eminent Leader. _Humble_ , especially,” laughs Harry, parting a bit.

“Predictable, Pup. My ego,” he growls, taking a step back to scan Harry from head to toe, like a sculptor who’s finished his masterpiece, “is an extremely overrated conversation topic.”

Harry giggles without saying anything, and goes back in his arms one last time.

“You know how much I owe you,” he whispers, hoping that a few words can properly convey how thankful he is.

“It’s all yours, Pup. Us coaches are here to argue with journalists and see something good in a kid who just recovered from a ligament tear, and a few other stupid things. You’ll go far, Pup. Say hi to Louis?” says the coach, winking at Harry, who snorts loudly, rolling his eyes.

“As if you can’t do it for yourself. I know you talk every week or so. I could get jealous. Should I check his texts?” he asks, jokingly.

“You wouldn’t be surprised to realise they’re all about you. You know Louis is quite whipped, right? If I’m sure of something, is that since that day when he burst into my office to talk to me about this curly kid from the academy, Louis was completely and utterly gone.”

Harry goes red to these words, and hides his face behind his hands.

“There’s something I want you to tell him, though, Pup. I kept my promises, too.”

Harry smiles and nods, without inquiring further. “Will do.”

He takes his box and gives one last peek at the pitch, then gets going.

Watching him go, Mourinho thinks of how he’s grown up, how much he matured and became strong and even more talented, of how time will be gentler with this boy, from now on. He fetches his phone from the pocket of his trackies, allowing himself to send a text to Louis.

 

_I took care of him, as I promised. I’m returning him to you, but you need to keep going with the work. I’m waiting for you in my office here in Milan, whenever you want, for a real coffee. So you can ascertain with your eyes that your jersey is right where it should be._

 

-

 

“I seriously hope that the reason why you had to drag me out of bed at five in the fucking morning of my day off is extremely vital, Styles,” yells Niall from afar, as soon as he spots  him stepping out of the arrivals in Manchester’s airport. He smiles, walking towards him and Barbara, carrying his suitcases, in which he managed to fit almost all his stuff, in the end.

“Because otherwise I'll get back at you, and be sure that I will take all the time needed to hit you with my revenge in the most unexpected moment,” goes on Niall, wrapping his arms around his middle in the meanwhile.

Harry smiles brightly, even if it’s something like six in the morning, returning the hug, and then proceeding to take Barbara in his arms. He’s missed her so much. she’s been away in the U.S. for two months, and then for Christmas Harry and Louis went to stay at Harry’s mum, so they haven’t seen each other in ages.

“Shush, Ni. Don’t listen to him Haz, we’re so happy you’re here! I need to tell you _a lot_ , how much are you staying, can you come over tom—ah,” she blabs, stifling the rest of the sentence in a yawn against Harry’s cheek. Harry giggles.

“I’m sorry I woke you up so early. I would have hailed a taxi, but I wouldn’t have known what to do with my luggage and—I needed to see you,” he excuses himself, rocking on the balls of his feet, nervously, because he’s not sure of this crazy thing he’s about to do, and seeing some friendly faces makes him feel a bit better.

Niall and Barbara exchange an odd look, like they always do when they’re trying to communicate without letting other people know.

“Your lugg—you’re here to surprise Lou, right?” asks Barbara hesitantly, while Niall takes the handle of his biggest suitcase from his hand. Harry doesn’t say anything and smiles dimly, looking down.

“So we can grab some breakfast here and then I’ll take you to his place? I’m desperate for some coffee,” says Niall, walking towards the exit, followed suit by Barbara.

Harry doesn’t, though, and when the other two notice they turn around with a questioning look. Harry breathes in. Then out.

“Oh no. Not at his place,” whispers Harry sheepishly, feeling a flush climb his neck.

Niall spares Barbara a serious glance. “I fucking _told you_!” he yells, scowling angrily at Harry, leaving him startled. “I knew as soon as he called! _Why isn’t he calling Louis_?”

“Oh God, let him expla—“ tries Barbara, but Niall cuts her off.

“I swear on the Irish flag Styles, that if you fucked up with Louis once again, I won’t let you live that! I’m not ready to see him crumble like a sand castle all over again, I’ve done my fair share of comforting. I don’t want to see him play shit because of you, bury himself under the duvet and watch ‘When Harry met Sally’ for the umpteenth time and sob melancholically everytime they say your name. Maybe if we turned it into a drinking game it would actually be fun—no wait forget it, because drunk and heartbroken Louis is the real _bane of my existence._ ”

Harry keeps staring at him, disbelievingly, eyes wide open and mouth agape.

“So if something happened you better fix it, and soon, because otherwise I will punch you both until you see reason. Not to think about the road trip we already planned on doing for the next holidays! You’re not spoiling it for everyone!” goes on Niall, turning the volume of his voice up, while some people stopped to listen to his fit.

“Are you finished?” asks Harry softly, with a smile that shows his dimples.

“I guess so,” answer Niall uncertain, because the last thing he was expecting on Harry’s face was a _smile_.

“Now, can you please take me to the Manchester United headquarters?”

 

-

 

Harry takes a steady breath, sitting on a stuffed chair just outside the office of the Manchester United CEO. He sort of had a panic attack and they left him here to recompose, as they fix the last details on the contract. He exhales slowly, taking some seconds to think about his decision one last time.

It’s not the best moment, after he’s taken a one way flight to Manchester, after asking Niall to take him here, but this truly is the last time he can change his mind.

From every angle, though, the decision seems the best he could take. There’s no going back, because this is all he wants. And he hopes this is also what Louis wants.

Because, even if Inter became almost his family, in a place that was so foreign to him at the beginning, a place he has now won over with his talent, a place that he has learned to love, and that loves him back, he understood that it wasn’t his place anymore.

That it wasn’t his way in the world.

“Mr. Styles, if you’re ready we would like to start,” announces abruptly a man in a suit, peeking from the door of the office.

Harry nods, passing his tongue on his dry lips. Before standing up he pulls out his phone and takes a moment to scroll among the pictures of him and Louis. He feels his stomach burn, from how nervous he is.

But it’s a good kind of nervous, it feels right. He opens the front camera, holds up two fingers and smiles brightly, displaying his teeth, taking a picture of himself under the Manchester United logo painted on the wall just behind him. He posts it on his Twitter, with the caption ‘ _Home_ ’.

“I am. I’m so ready,” he says then, turning the phone off and following the man in the room, closing the door behind his back.

 

-

 

“Zayn, I think Harry is in Manchester.”

Louis stopped the match of FIFA that Zayn was winning just because probably the planets were aligned in favour of his sign and Louis was _letting him_ , anyway, when he heard his phone buzz with the notification of Harry’s tweet, and started to fumble with the device.

“Oh, fucking _come on_. I was about to score the third goal!” Zayn stretches his limbs and then makes a dash to fetch the controller from Louis, failing miserably, even if Louis is shorter. How is it that everytime he’s winning something happens that they have to stop playing?

Louis looks at him disbelievingly, putting the joystick out of Zayn’s way. “The fucking nerve, Zayn. Did you listen to what I said?”

Zayn stops from trying to steal the controller and crosses his arms on his chest. “Fine,” he caves, rolling his eyes. “What makes you think he would be?”

Louis shoves his phone with Harry’s tweet in his face. “But I tried to call him, and he doesn’t answer, not even to my texts,” he says worriedly, starting to walk circles in the room.

“Oh, right, but it’s Harry,” dismisses Zayn rationally, taking a look at the picture. “I mean, he always tweets weird and cryptic stuff. Did I tell you he sent me that picture of a cat brushing its teeth the other day?” laughs Zayn, but he turns serious when he sees Louis’ not even smiling. “And Louis, it’s _Harry_. Your Harry. Why wouldn’t he tell you, if he actually were here?”

Louis sits down on the couch, without stopping fidgeting. “I don’t know. Why would I know? Maybe he wants me to reach him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake Lou, you’re not going to play the treasure hunt around Mancheste—“

Louis shushes him with a gesture of his hand, as he scrolls his contact list and dials the call to Niall. He waits for the phone to ring thrice, before getting an answer.

“There’s this beautiful concept called day off, did anybody inform you about that?” says Niall, tone dry.

“Shut up. I need you to drive me to a place,” snorts Louis.

“Oh, wow, your kindness leaves me speechless. Honestly. Can you explain why is everybody expecting me to drive them around Manchester this morning?” asks Niall, clearly annoyed.

“I’m your _Captain_. And who else asked you, by the way?” investigates Louis loudly, arching one eyebrow.

“...”

“ _Niall,_ ” warns Louis, when he hears hesitation on the other end of the line.

“It was—just saying,” mumbles his best friend, not very convincingly. He needs to work harder on this if he wants to fool Louis.

“Harry,” ascertains Louis, jumping on his feet, hand closed in a fist.

“If I drive you to him immediately will you testify that I’m the best secret keeper to grace this earth with his presence?” sighs Niall, raising the white flag.

“Define immediately,” demands Louis in a smirk.

“I’m in the car already,” groans Niall resignedly.

 

-

 

“I hope you’re aware of the great chance we’re giving you.”

They’re all sitting around another table, and Harry is less nervous now, sure of what he wants. They’re paying him less than what Inter Milan had offered, but they’re willing to take him, and now he’s old and strong enough to fight for this team.

Johnson looks at him with an half grin, red in the face, and Harry wonders if he still maintains grudge against him or he was forced to go back on his own words because of what Harry showed he could do.

Anyway, he’s still an asshole. Mourinho was _so_ right. He’s still there just because he has this great team that makes him win, but his merits are quite to question. It won’t be Harry the one to do just so, though.

“I hope you’ll be ethical and professional. It’s not like I’ve ever had problems in putting Tomlinson out of the team before even if he is the star,” adds the coach with a mighty smirk, making Harry snort.

Well it’s not like they haven’t already fucked in the locker room just under his nose, either. Or in the showers. Ah even on the bench where he sits every other Sunday. So, whatever.

“Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. It’s like the coach is threatening him with the prospect that he will make his life impossible, that he will be waiting for his every fake step.

Well, Harry will _show him_.

“Harry knows the implications. He’ll keep an exemplar attitude, we can assure you, right Harry?” hurries his agent, putting the contract sheets in front of him and offering him a pen.

This is it. There’s no going back, if he signs it. But he’s sure, it’s what he wants. It’s what he’s thought about for half a year now, and he’s ready to endure the consequences of this gesture. And he thinks that’s what Louis wants, too, even if he will be completely sure of that only when he talks to him. But he’s almost sure it is. _Almost_.

“Whatever,” he repeats with an insolent tone, as he smugly signs the papers.

 

-

 

Louis is sitting on the same stuffed chair where Harry was just some time ago, torturing his hands, while Niall looks at him worriedly, leaning with his ear pressed against the locked door, that unfortunately doesn’t let sounds come through.

“Chill out, Lou,” tries Niall in a whisper, not very convincing.

Louis lifts his eyes from the floor to look at his teammate.

“You’re sure you don’t know anything?” he asks, picking at his lips nervously.

Niall comes to him and places his hands on his shoulders, while Barbara, who’s sitting next to him, brushes his knee comfortingly.

“I have an idea to be honest, but—“

“Yeah, me too,” cuts in Barbara with a hopeful smile. Of course they do. Don’t they all? But it would be too much to hope for. Impossible. Why would that be?

“But it can’t possibly be, right? He didn't say anything. Nothing on the papers. Oh God, what if there’s another problem with his knee or what if—“

Louis is just rambling, but that’s a reflection of the thoughts in his head right now.

“Listen, Lou. Don’t fret, okay? Cross the bridge when you come to it and all that stuff, eh?”

Well, it’s not like Louis consciously _wants_ to fret. But why didn’t Harry speak to him, why didn’t he tell Louis that he would be back in Manchester, and why didn’t he talk explicitly? Why there are still hidden things between them, when they’re making it so far, when they’re still going strong? Why does he have to fight the lump in his throat, struggle to let out the feeling that something wrong always looms over them?

Louis figures that it’s all because they’re too far away. As much as they like to pretend, it’s not the same than living in each other's space.

His thoughts are interrupted by a shutter click and the door opening. Louis steadies himself upright, posture all tense, and sees the technical manager and coach Johnson coming out of the room, followed suit by Harry, who’s displaying a big radiant smile on his lips.

“Harry!” calls Louis, and the pressure on his chest loosens a bit, because if Harry is smiling it can’t be bad. It _can’t be_.

Harry stops dead on his tracks, his smile growing and completely breaking on his face as he spots Louis, after a moment of surprise.

“You found me,” rasps Harry fondly, moving to get to him. He’s stopped by a guy sporting a big camera around his neck, who grips his wrist and drags him under the Manchester United logo.

“Just some pictures for the website before we release the official statement!” he announces, motioning the manager and the coach to join Harry.

Louis widens his eyes as he follows the scene, watching Harry convert his expression in a more composed one, as he shakes the sports manager’s hand to get the pictures taken. He watches them, mouth agape as Harry unfolds a red Manchester United jersey and holds it in front of him, in plain sight, while the man keeps taking photos. Then he turns it around, with a smug smile, and Louis feels his legs giving out as he spots the ‘ _STYLES_ ’ written in a white font across the back, just above the number four, Harry’s number. And he didn’t know what else to expect, really, but all the same he’s lucky he’s sitting, because he feels like he’s losing his balance. He sags into the chair, covering his flustered face with his hands, and Barbara squeezes his knee one last time before standing up and leaving her chair to Harry, who comes steeply beside him, clad in the Manchester United formal suit.

“Baby, say something,” begs Harry, not daring to touch, leaving some centimetres of space between them.

“What did you do to persuade Jones to give away the number four?” asks confusedly Louis from behind his hands.

“ _Lou_ ” scolds him Harry with an exasperated sigh, that finally has Louis burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“I can’t believe you seriously did it, you gave up everything you had at Inter,” he mumbles.

Harry bites his lips, taking Louis’ face in his hands and pushing him away a bit, so his eyes are staring directly into Louis’, and scanning him, as if he needs to be perfectly sure of what Louis is feeling, and even when he thinks he only sees trace of sheer happiness mixed with the blue of his irises he needs to ask, to double check, to make sure.

“I’d do anything for you,” he says, serious as Louis has never seen him. “You’re not angry, right? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I wanted to surprise you. Are you happy, yeah?”

Louis stares back, unable to form words. He knows what is the real reason why Harry didn’t say anything, and it’s because he would have probably tried to talk him out of this decision, because he didn’t want to be selfish, even if seeing Harry come back to Manchester would be the happiest thing to happen to him. To them.

He places his hands on top of Harry’s, which are still holding him in place and kisses him in reply. The kiss carries all the heat and the frenzy on the moment, of one week in which they haven’t seen each other, of the prospect of _forever_ , that dances happily in both their heads. They’re interrupted by the shutter click of a camera going off, and they part imperceptibly, giving the photographer a fuzzy look. Louis pulls an homicidal glare, while Harry giggles helplessly next to him.

Has this guy ever heard about _privacy_?

“What the fuck are you doing?” grumbles Louis, scrunching his nose. Harry grips his wrist, pressing his fingers on his veins to calm him, smiling relaxed.

“Let’s go home Lou,” he slides his fingers until they’re tied up with Louis’ and he holds with certainty, guiding him towards a black car with tinted windows that was waiting for them in the parking lot.

Louis tries to ignore the flipping of his stomach when Harry says the word ‘ _home_ ’, but he quite doesn’t manage.

 

-

 

“Just the way it should be,” mutters Louis, as traces the outline of Harry’s shoulder with his lips, stopping on his neck to leave a warm kiss. “You’re here, playing for Manchester with me, where it all started, just like it should have always been.”

Harry nods and beams at his boyfriend, letting his hands wander on Louis’ sides, caging him against the cushions with this arms and his body.

“I’m happy how things went, though,” he says, freeing Louis from his sweater and from the t-shirt he was wearing underneath. All these stupid  _layers,_ when he just needs to feel him close, honestly.

“Me too. Very, very happy,” agrees Louis, extracting his arms from under Harry’s weight and flattening his hands on Harry’s chest, to push him away only slightly. “You said home before,” he states sheepishly, looking down at his own hands, cheeks flushed.

“I did,” says Harry smiling brightly, catching Louis' lips in a brief kiss. "Will you punch me if I say that home is wherever I'm with you?" He grins when they part.

“I probably should,” whispers Louis, going pliant under the smug look Harry is giving him, propped up on his arms to contemplate him better. "The future is bright," he says then, locking eyes with the other boy in a sort of silent promise.

“I hope it really is,” whispers Harry tenderly, with so much happiness in his eyes and in the features of his face that Louis can almost _feel_ his love. “Anyway, I’m about to find out.”

“What do you mean?” asks curiously Louis, who half of the time doesn't understand what Harry is on about, even when he is not this fuzzy-headed.

Harry smirks and props on his knees to steady himself upright, sitting on top of Louis and straddling him. He fumbles with the back pocket of his skinny jeans to pull out something.

A _gold ring_ kind of something. And Louis feels like choking.

"Don't freak out," he whispers, going for another kiss to smooth the shocked expression on Louis' face. “I mean,” he then continues softly, taking Louis’ hand in his own and playing with his fingers. “That it could be bright in a different way. In a new way. If you want,” he says, hesitant and flustered, casting Louis a look with eyes dark and bright at the same time.

Louis widens his eyes gulping, his stomach somersaulting as he stares at the thin rose gold strip, very simple and elegant, just like Harry would pick it.

“I—Harry. Baby. Yes. _Of course_. Like I could ever say no to you. I love you with all I've got and I would always, always say yes to you.” Answers Louis, commotion in his voice, stretching out his fingers so that Harry can carefully put the ring on it. Louis looks incredulously at his own hand like it belongs to somebody else, and places it on Harry’s cheek, still taking in the way it looks.

“You want to marry me,” he states blankly, bringing his other hand on Harry’s other cheek and drawing him close to his face, closer, with the only aim to join their lips.

“I do. But you don’t have to feel pressured, I know we are young and we have a lot going on right now," he says, and Louis smiles even biggeer, and he didn't think it was possible. "We’ve got time, okay?" continues Harry, pushing Louis' fringe aside with his hand. "I just...I know I love you Lou. I love you so much it almost hurts sometimes, and I want you to know, and I want you to know that I'm yours, forever. I want to make this promise to you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He kisses him again, and again, and as he wraps his arms around Harry's torso and hugs the tightest, sighing at how firm and comforting his body feels, Louis has never felt surer of something in his life.

“As if you hadn’t done enough big romantic gestures for today, Prince Charming," he snorts when they detach to breath again. “But that’s why I would say yes. A million times yes,” he laughs then, going for another kiss.

“Hey! I didn’t even drop on my knees!” counters Harry in between the pecks of their lips.

“You can drop on your knees later,” smirks Louis, making Harry blush.

“ _Louu,_ ” he complains, feeling vulnerable under Louis’ intense stare. “I wasn't joking. I don’t want to like...force you, or pressure you. We’ve got time ahead of us. But I also want you to know that it's much more than just a romantic gesture. I’m serious about this. The most serious I’ve been in my life.”

“I know. And I love you,” grumbles Louis happily, in the most stupidly happy sound Harry’s ever heard him make, and if there even was a last shred of doubt crushing his chest, he's sure it has disappeared, like a bubble blowing up. ”We don’t have much time, though. I mean, not to get married, you know, but to enjoy these days together. Winter break is over in three days and you’ve got your press conference of presentation sometime next week,” considers Louis then, frowning at the prospect of not being able to spend the rest of his life like this, all wrapped around Harry on the couch.

“We should make the most of this time. We should do something nice,” mumbles Harry against his chest where he's nestled up.

“This is nice,” murmurs Louis softly. “Be prepared because I can already see gossip journalists sneak in just to ask you about us during the presentation,” he remarks then bitterly, as he starts to play lazily with Harry’s curls.

“I don’t care,” Harry says, lifting his head up a bit to leave a kiss where Louis’ heart is.

“ _I’ve got all the answers._ ”

 

_*_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, it's over.  
> Thanks for reading, again. Every single hit, kudos or comment make me extremely happy, you don't know how grateful I am.  
> It really meant a lot for me writing this, as it is the longest thing I've written in English.  
> You have all been very kind, I hope you've enjoyed the story all along.  
> If you want to say hi or ask anything, it's [mortediunfiore](http://mortediunfiore.tumblr.com/) on tumblr :)  
> Until next time x


End file.
